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"THE HAIRY APE"
A Comedy of Ancient and Modern Life
In Eight Scenes
By
EUGENE O'NEILL
CHARACTERS
ROBERT SMITH, "YANK"
PADDY
LONG
MILDRED DOUGLAS
HER AUNT
SECOND ENGINEER
A GUARD
A SECRETARY OF AN ORGANIZATION
STOKERS, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, ETC.
SCENE I
SCENE--_The firemen's forecastle of a transatlantic liner an hour after
sailing from New York for the voyage across. Tiers of narrow, steel
bunks, three deep, on all sides. An entrance in rear. Benches on the
floor before the bunks. The room is crowded with men, shouting,
cursing, laughing, singing--a confused, inchoate uproar swelling into a
sort of unity, a meaning--the bewildered, furious, baffled defiance of
a beast in a cage. Nearly all the men are drunk. Many bottles are
passed from hand to hand. All are dressed in dungaree pants, heavy ugly
shoes. Some wear singlets, but the majority are stripped to the waist._
_The treatment of this scene, or of any other scene in the play, should
by no means be naturalistic. The effect sought after is a cramped space
in the bowels of a ship, imprisoned by white steel. The lines of bunks,
the uprights supporting them, cross each other like the steel framework
of a cage. The ceiling crushes down upon the men's heads. They cannot
stand upright. This accentuates the natural stooping posture which
shovelling coal and the resultant over-development of back and shoulder
muscles have given them. The men themselves should resemble those
pictures in which the appearance of Neanderthal Man is guessed at. All
are hairy-chested, with long arms of tremendous power, and low,
receding brows above their small, fierce, resentful eyes. All the
civilized white races are represented, but except for the slight
differentiation in color of hair, skin, eyes, all these men are alike._
_The curtain rises on a tumult of sound. YANK is seated in the
foreground. He seems broader, fiercer, more truculent, more powerful,
more sure of himself than the rest. They respect his superior
strength--the grudging respect of fear. Then, too, he represents to
them a self-expression, the very last word in what they are, their most
highly developed individual._
VOICES--Gif me trink dere, you!
'Ave a wet!
Salute!
Gesundheit!
Skoal!
Drunk as a lord, God stiffen you!
Here's how!
Luck!
Pass back that bottle, damn you!
Pourin' it down his neck!
Ho, Froggy! Where the devil have you been?
La Touraine.
I hit him smash in yaw, py Gott!
Jenkins--the First--he's a rotten swine--
And the coppers nabbed him--and I run--
I like peer better. It don't pig head gif you.
A slut, I'm sayin'! She robbed me aslape--
To hell with 'em all!
You're a bloody liar!
Say dot again!
[_Commotion. Two men about to fight are pulled apart._]
No scrappin' now!
To-night--
See who's the best man!
Bloody Dutchman!
To-night on the for'ard square.
I'll bet on Dutchy.
He packa da wallop, I tella you!
Shut up, Wop!
No fightin', maties. We're all chums, ain't we?
[_A voice starts bawling a song._]
"Beer, beer, glorious beer!
Fill yourselves right up to here."
YANK--[_For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproar about
him, turns around threateningly--in a tone of contemptuous authority._]
"Choke off dat noise! Where d'yuh get dat beer stuff? Beer, hell!
Beer's for goils--and Dutchmen. Me for somep'n wit a kick to it! Gimme
a drink, one of youse guys. [_Several bottles are eagerly offered. He
takes a tremendous gulp at one of them; then, keeping the bottle in his
hand, glares belligerently at the owner, who hastens to acquiesce in
this robbery by saying:_] All righto, Yank. Keep it and have another."
[_Yank contemptuously turns his back on the crowd again. For a second
there is an embarrassed silence. Then--_]
VOICES--We must be passing the Hook. She's beginning to roll to it. Six
days in hell--and then Southampton. Py Yesus, I vish somepody take my
first vatch for me! Gittin' seasick, Square-head? Drink up and forget
it! What's in your bottle? Gin. Dot's nigger trink. Absinthe? It's
doped. You'll go off your chump, Froggy! Cochon! Whiskey, that's the
ticket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep. Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy.
[_They all turn to an old, wizened Irishman who is dozing, very drunk,
on the benches forward. His face is extremely monkey-like with all the
sad, patient pathos of that animal in his small eyes._] Singa da song,
Caruso Pat! He's gettin' old. The drink is too much for him. He's too
drunk.
PADDY--[_Blinking about him, starts to his feet resentfully, swaying,
holding on to the edge of a bunk._] I'm never too drunk to sing. 'Tis
only when I'm dead to the world I'd be wishful to sing at all. [_With a
sort of sad contempt._] "Whiskey Johnny," ye want? A chanty, ye want?
Now that's a queer wish from the ugly like of you, God help you. But no
matther. [_He starts to sing in a thin, nasal, doleful tone:_]
Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey! O Johnny!
[_They all join in on this._]
Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey for my Johnny! [_Again chorus_]
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey! O Johnny!
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey for my Johnny!
YANK--[_Again turning around scornfully._] Aw hell! Nix on dat old
sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead, too, yuh
damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy, see. Give us a
rest. Nix on de loud noise. [_With a cynical grin._] Can't youse see
I'm tryin' to t'ink?
ALL--[_Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amused
mockery._] Think! [_The chorused word has a brazen metallic quality as
if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a general
uproar of hard, barking laughter._]
VOICES--Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank.
You gat headache, py yingo!
One thing about it--it rhymes with drink!
Ha, ha, ha!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
[_A whole chorus of voices has taken up this refrain, stamping on the
floor, pounding on the benches with fists._]
YANK--[_Taking a gulp from his bottle--good-naturedly._] Aw right. Can
de noise. I got yuh de foist time. [_The uproar subsides. A very
drunken sentimental tenor begins to sing:_]
"Far away in Canada,
Far across the sea,
There's a lass who fondly waits
Making a home for me--"
YANK--[_Fiercely contemptuous._] Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where d'yuh
get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh! I'll knock
yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get dat tripe? Dis is
home, see? What d'yuh want wit home? [_Proudly._] I runned away from
mine when I was a kid. On'y too glad to beat it, dat was me. Home was
lickings for me, dat's all. But yuh can bet your shoit noone ain't
never licked me since! Wanter try it, any of youse? Huh! I guess not.
[_In a more placated but still contemptuous tone._] Goils waitin' for
yuh, huh? Aw, hell! Dat's all tripe. Dey don't wait for noone. Dey'd
double-cross yuh for a nickel. Dey're all tarts, get me? Treat 'em
rough, dat's me. To hell wit 'em. Tarts, dat's what, de whole bunch of
'em.
LONG--[_Very drunk, jumps on a bench excitedly, gesticulating with a
bottle in his hand._] Listen 'ere, Comrades! Yank 'ere is right. 'E
says this 'ere stinkin' ship is our 'ome. And 'e says as 'ome is 'ell.
And 'e's right! This is 'ell. We lives in 'ell, Comrades--and right
enough we'll die in it. [_Raging._] And who's ter blame, I arsks yer?
We ain't. We wasn't born this rotten way. All men is born free and
ekal. That's in the bleedin' Bible, maties. But what d'they care for
the Bible--them lazy, bloated swine what travels first cabin? Them's
the ones. They dragged us down 'til we're on'y wage slaves in the
bowels of a bloody ship, sweatin', burnin' up, eatin' coal dust! Hit's
them's ter blame--the damned capitalist clarss! [_There had been a
gradual murmur of contemptuous resentment rising among the men until
now he is interrupted by a storm of catcalls, hisses, boos, hard
laughter._]
VOICES--Turn it off!
Shut up!
Sit down!
Closa da face!
Tamn fool! (Etc.)
YANK--[_Standing up and glaring at Long._] Sit down before I knock yuh
down! [_Long makes haste to efface himself. Yank goes on
contemptuously._] De Bible, huh? De Cap'tlist class, huh? Aw nix on dat
Salvation Army-Socialist bull. Git a soapbox! Hire a hall! Come and be
saved, huh? Jerk us to Jesus, huh? Aw g'wan! I've listened to lots of
guys like you, see, Yuh're all wrong. Wanter know what I t'ink? Yuh
ain't no good for noone. Yuh're de bunk. Yuh ain't got no noive, get
me? Yuh're yellow, dat's what. Yellow, dat's you. Say! What's dem slobs
in de foist cabin got to do wit us? We're better men dan dey are, ain't
we? Sure! One of us guys could clean up de whole mob wit one mit. Put
one of 'em down here for one watch in de stokehole, what'd happen?
Dey'd carry him off on a stretcher. Dem boids don't amount to nothin'.
Dey're just baggage. Who makes dis old tub run? Ain't it us guys? Well
den, we belong, don't we? We belong and dey don't. Dat's all. [_A loud
chorus of approval. Yank goes on_] As for dis bein' hell--aw, nuts! Yuh
lost your noive, dat's what. Dis is a man's job, get me? It belongs. It
runs dis tub. No stiffs need apply. But yuh're a stiff, see? Yuh're
yellow, dat's you.
VOICES--[_With a great hard pride in them._]
Righto!
A man's job!
Talk is cheap, Long.
He never could hold up his end.
Divil take him!
Yank's right. We make it go.
Py Gott, Yank say right ting!
We don't need noone cryin' over us.
Makin' speeches.
Throw him out!
Yellow!
Chuck him overboard!
I'll break his jaw for him!
[_They crowd around Long threateningly._]
YANK--[_Half good-natured again--contemptuously._] Aw, take it easy.
Leave him alone. He ain't woith a punch. Drink up. Here's how, whoever
owns dis. [_He takes a long swallow from his bottle. All drink with
him. In a flash all is hilarious amiability again, back-slapping, loud
talk, etc._]
PADDY--[_Who has been sitting in a blinking, melancholy daze--suddenly
cries out in a voice full of old sorrow._] We belong to this, you're
saying? We make the ship to go, you're saying? Yerra then, that
Almighty God have pity on us! [_His voice runs into the wail of a keen,
he rocks back and forth on his bench. The men stare at him, startled
and impressed in spite of themselves._] Oh, to be back in the fine days
of my youth, ochone! Oh, there was fine beautiful ships them
days--clippers wid tall masts touching the sky--fine strong men in
them--men that was sons of the sea as if 'twas the mother that bore
them. Oh, the clean skins of them, and the clear eyes, the straight
backs and full chests of them! Brave men they was, and bold men surely!
We'd be sailing out, bound down round the Horn maybe. We'd be making
sail in the dawn, with a fair breeze, singing a chanty song wid no care
to it. And astern the land would be sinking low and dying out, but we'd
give it no heed but a laugh, and never a look behind. For the day that
was, was enough, for we was free men--and I'm thinking 'tis only slaves
do be giving heed to the day that's gone or the day to come--until
they're old like me. [_With a sort of religious exaltation._] Oh, to be
scudding south again wid the power of the Trade Wind driving her on
steady through the nights and the days! Full sail on her! Nights and
days! Nights when the foam of the wake would be flaming wid fire, when
the sky'd be blazing and winking wid stars. Or the full of the moon
maybe. Then you'd see her driving through the gray night, her sails
stretching aloft all silver and white, not a sound on the deck, the lot
of us dreaming dreams, till you'd believe 'twas no real ship at all you
was on but a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman they say does be
roaming the seas forevermore widout touching a port. And there was the
days, too. A warm sun on the clean decks. Sun warming the blood of you,
and wind over the miles of shiny green ocean like strong drink to your
lungs. Work--aye, hard work--but who'd mind that at all? Sure, you
worked under the sky and 'twas work wid skill and daring to it. And wid
the day done, in the dog watch, smoking me pipe at ease, the lookout
would be raising land maybe, and we'd see the mountains of South
Americy wid the red fire of the setting sun painting their white tops
and the clouds floating by them! [_His tone of exaltation ceases. He
goes on mournfully._] Yerra, what's the use of talking? 'Tis a dead
man's whisper. [_To Yank resentfully._] 'Twas them days men belonged to
ships, not now. 'Twas them days a ship was part of the sea, and a man
was part of a ship, and the sea joined all together and made it one.
[_Scornfully._] Is it one wid this you'd be, Yank--black smoke from the
funnels smudging the sea, smudging the decks--the bloody engines
pounding and throbbing and shaking--wid divil a sight of sun or a
breath of clean air--choking our lungs wid coal dust--breaking our
backs and hearts in the hell of the stokehole--feeding the bloody
furnace--feeding our lives along wid the coal, I'm thinking--caged in
by steel from a sight of the sky like bloody apes in the Zoo! [_With a
harsh laugh._] Ho-ho, divil mend you! Is it to belong to that you're
wishing? Is it a flesh and blood wheel of the engines you'd be?
YANK--[_Who has been listening with a contemptuous sneer, barks out the
answer._] Sure ting! Dat's me! What about it?
PADDY--[_As if to himself--with great sorrow._] Me time is past due.
That a great wave wid sun in the heart of it may sweep me over the side
sometime I'd be dreaming of the days that's gone!
YANK--Aw, yuh crazy Mick! [_He springs to his feet and advances on
Paddy threateningly--then stops, fighting some queer struggle within
himself--lets his hands fall to his sides--contemptuously._] Aw, take
it easy. Yuh're aw right, at dat. Yuh're bugs, dat's all--nutty as a
cuckoo. All dat tripe yuh been pullin'--Aw, dat's all right. On'y it's
dead, get me? Yuh don't belong no more, see. Yuh don't get de stuff.
Yuh're too old. [_Disgustedly._] But aw say, come up for air onct in a
while, can't yuh? See what's happened since yuh croaked. [_He suddenly
bursts forth vehemently, growing more and more excited._] Say! Sure!
Sure I meant it! What de hell--Say, lemme talk! Hey! Hey, you old Harp!
Hey, youse guys! Say, listen to me--wait a moment--I gotter talk, see.
I belong and he don't. He's dead but I'm livin'. Listen to me! Sure I'm
part of de engines! Why de hell not! Dey move, don't dey? Dey're speed,
ain't dey? Dey smash trou, don't dey? Twenty-five knots a hour! Dat's
goin' some! Dat's new stuff! Dat belongs! But him, he's too old. He
gets dizzy. Say, listen. All dat crazy tripe about nights and days; all
dat crazy tripe about stars and moons; all dat crazy tripe about suns
and winds, fresh air and de rest of it--Aw hell, dat's all a dope
dream! Hittin' de pipe of de past, dat's what he's doin'. He's old and
don't belong no more. But me, I'm young! I'm in de pink! I move wit it!
It, get me! I mean de ting dat's de guts of all dis. It ploughs trou
all de tripe he's been sayin'. It blows dat up! It knocks dat dead! It
slams dat off en de face of de oith! It, get me! De engines and de coal
and de smoke and all de rest of it! He can't breathe and swallow coal
dust, but I kin, see? Dat's fresh air for me! Dat's food for me! I'm
new, get me? Hell in de stokehole? Sure! It takes a man to work in
hell. Hell, sure, dat's my fav'rite climate. I eat it up! I git fat on
it! It's me makes it hot! It's me makes it roar! It's me makes it move!
Sure, on'y for me everyting stops. It all goes dead, get me? De noise
and smoke and all de engines movin' de woild, dey stop. Dere ain't
nothin' no more! Dat's what I'm sayin'. Everyting else dat makes de
woild move, somep'n makes it move. It can't move witout somep'n else,
see? Den yuh get down to me. I'm at de bottom, get me! Dere ain't
nothin' foither. I'm de end! I'm de start! I start somep'n and de woild
moves! It--dat's me!--de new dat's moiderin' de old! I'm de ting in
coal dat makes it boin; I'm steam and oil for de engines; I'm de ting
in noise dat makes yuh hear it; I'm smoke and express trains and
steamers and factory whistles; I'm de ting in gold dat makes it money!
And I'm what makes iron into steel! Steel, dat stands for de whole
ting! And I'm steel--steel--steel! I'm de muscles in steel, de punch
behind it! [_As he says this he pounds with his fist against the steel
bunks. All the men, roused to a pitch of frenzied self-glorification by
his speech, do likewise. There is a deafening metallic roar, through
which Yank's voice can be heard bellowing._] Slaves, hell! We run de
whole woiks. All de rich guys dat tink dey're somep'n, dey ain't
nothin'! Dey don't belong. But us guys, we're in de move, we're at de
bottom, de whole ting is us! [_Paddy from the start of Yank's speech
has been taking one gulp after another from his bottle, at first
frightenedly, as if he were afraid to listen, then desperately, as if
to drown his senses, but finally has achieved complete indifferent,
even amused, drunkenness. Yank sees his lips moving. He quells the
uproar with a shout._] Hey, youse guys, take it easy! Wait a moment! De
nutty Harp is sayin' someth'n.
PADDY--[_Is heard now--throws his head back with a mocking burst of
laughter._] Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho---
YANK--[_Drawing back his fist, with a snarl._] Aw! Look out who yuh're
givin' the bark!
PADDY--[_Begins to sing the "Muler of Dee" with enormous good-nature._]
"I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me."
YANK--[_Good-natured himself in a flash, interrupts PADDY with a slap
on the bare back like a report._] Dat's de stuff! Now yuh're gettin'
wise to somep'n. Care for nobody, dat's de dope! To hell wit 'em all!
And nix on nobody else carin'. I kin care for myself, get me! [_Eight
bells sound, muffled, vibrating through the steel walls as if some
enormous brazen gong were imbedded in the heart of the ship. All the
men jump up mechanically, file through the door silently close upon each
other's heels in what is very like a prisoners lockstep. YANK slaps
PADDY on the back._] Our watch, yuh old Harp! [_Mockingly._] Come on
down in hell. Eat up de coal dust. Drink in de heat. It's it, see! Act
like yuh liked it, yuh better--or croak yuhself.
PADDY--[_With jovial defiance._] To the divil wid it! I'll not report
this watch. Let thim log me and be damned. I'm no slave the like of
you. I'll be sittin' here at me ease, and drinking, and thinking, and
dreaming dreams.
YANK--[_Contemptuously._] Tinkin' and dreamin', what'll that get yuh?
What's tinkin' got to do wit it? We move, don't we? Speed, ain't it?
Fog, dat's all you stand for. But we drive trou dat, don't we? We split
dat up and smash trou--twenty-five knots a hour! [_Turns his back on
Paddy scornfully._] Aw, yuh make me sick! Yuh don't belong! [_He
strides out the door in rear. Paddy hums to himself, blinking
drowsily._]
[_Curtain_]