The Emperor Jones by Eugene O'Neill (shoe dog free ebook txt) 📕

at a rate exactly corresponding to normal pulse beat—72 to the minute—and continues at a gradually accelerated rate from this point uninterruptedly to the very end of the play. Jones starts at the sound. A strange look of apprehension creeps into his face for a moment as he listens. Then he asks, with an attempt to regain his most casual manner._)

What’s dat drum beatin’ fo’?

SMITHERS—(_with a mean grin_) For you. That means the bleedin’ ceremony ‘as started. I’ve ‘eard it before and I knows.

JONES—Cer’mony? What cer’mony?

SMITHERS—The blacks is ‘oldin’ a bloody meetin’, ‘avin’ a war dance, gettin’ their courage worked up b’fore they starts after you.

JONES—Let dem! Dey’ll sho’ need it!

SMITHERS—And they’re there ‘oldin’ their ‘eathen religious service—makin’ no end of devil spells and charms to ‘elp ‘em against your silver bullet.

(_He guffaws loudly._) Blimey, but they’re balmy as ‘ell!

JONES—(_a tiny bit awed and shaken in spite of himself_)

Huh! Takes more’n dat to scare dis chicken!

SMITHERS—(_scenting the other’s feeling—maliciously_)

Ternight when it’s pitch black in the forest, they’ll ‘ave their pet devils and ghosts ‘oundin’ after you. You’ll find yer bloody ‘air ‘ll be standin’ on end before termorrow mornin’. (_seriously_)

It’s a bleedin’ queer place, that stinkin’ forest, even in daylight.

Yer don’t know what might ‘appen in there, it’s that rotten still.

Always sends the cold shivers down my back minute I gets in it.

JONES—(_with a contemptuous sniff_) I ain’t no chicken-liver like you is. Trees an’ me, we’ se friends, and dar’s a full moon comin’ bring me light. And let dem po’ niggers make all de fool spells dey’se a min’ to. Does yo’ s’pect I’se silly, enuff to b’lieve in ghosts an’ ha’nts an’ all dat ole woman’s talk? G’long, white man! You ain’t talkin’ to me.

(_with a chuckle_) Doesn’t you know dey’s got to do wid a man was member in good standin’ o’ de Baptist Church? Sho’ I was dat when

I was porter on de Pullmans, befo’ I gits into my little trouble.

Let dem try deir heathen tricks. De Baptist Church done pertect me and land dem all in hell. (_then with more confident satisfaction_)

And I’se got little silver bullet o’ my own, don’t forgits.

SMITHERS—Ho! You ‘aven’t give much ‘eed to your Baptist

Church since you been down ‘ere. I’ve ‘card myself you ‘ad turned yer coat an’ was takin’ up with their blarsted witch-docters, or whatever the ‘ell yer calls the swine.

JONES—(_vehemently_) I pretends to! Sho’ I pretends!

Dat’s part o’ my game from de fust. If I finds out dem niggers believes dat black is white, den I yells it out louder ‘n deir loudest. It don’t git me nothin’ to do missionary work for de Baptist Church.

I’se after de coin, an’ I lays my Jesus on de shelf for de time hem’.

(_stops abruptly to look at his watch—alertly_) But I ain’t got de time to waste no more fool talk wid you. I’se gwine away from heah dis secon’. (_He reaches in under the throne and pulls out an expensive

Panama hat with a bright multi-colored band and sets it jauntily on his head._) So long, white man! (_with a grin_) See you in jail sometime, maybe!

SMITHERS—Not me, you won’t. Well, I wouldn’t be in yer bloody boots for no bloomin’ money, but ‘ere’s wishin’ yer luck just the same.

JONES—(_contemptuously_) You’re de frightenedest man evah I see! I tells you I’se safe’s ‘f I was in New York City. It takes dem niggers from now to dark to git up de nerve to start somethin’.

By dat time, I’se got a head start dey never kotch up wid.

SMITHERS—(_maliciously_) Give my regards to any ghosts yer meets up with.

JONES—(_grinning_) If dat ghost got money, I’ll tell him never ha’nt you less’n he wants to lose it.

SMITHERS—(_flattered_) Garn! (_then curiously_)

Ain’t yer takin’ no luggage with yer?

JONES — I travels light when I wants to move fast. And I got tinned grub buried on de edge o’ de forest. (_boastfully_) Now say dat I don’t look ahead an’ use my brains! (_with a wide, liberal gesture_) I will all dat’s left in de palace to you — and you better grab all you kin sneak away wid befo’ dey gits here.

SMITHERS—(_gratefully_) Righto—and thanks ter yer.

(_as Jones walks toward the door in rear—cautioningly_)

Say! Look ‘ere, you am’t goin’ out that way, are yer?

JONES—Does you think I’d slink out de back door like a common nigger? I’se Emperor yit, ain’t I? And de Emperor Jones leaves de way he comes, and dat black trash don’t dare stop him — not yit, leastways.

(_He stops for a moment in the doorway, listening to the far-off but insistent beat of the tom-tom._)

Listen to dat roll-call, will you? Must be mighty big drum carry dat far. (_then with a laugh_) Well, if dey ain’t no whole brass band to see me off,

I sho’ got de drum part of it. So long, white man. (_He puts his hands in his pockets and with studied carelessness, whistling a tune, he saunters out of the doorway and off to the left._)

SMITHERS—(_looks after him with a puzzled admiration_)

‘E’s got ‘is bloomin’ nerve with ‘im, s’elp me! (_then angrily_)

Ho-the bleedin’ nigger—puttin’ an ‘is bloody airs! I ‘opes they nabs ‘im an’ gives ‘im what’s what!

(_Curtain_)

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SCENE TWO

The end of the plain where the Great Forest begins. The foreground is sandy, level ground dotted by a few stones and clumps of stunted bushes cowering close against the earth to escape the buffeting of the trade wind. In the rear the forest is a wall of darkness dividing the world. Only when the eye becomes accustomed to the gloom can the outlines of separate trunks of the nearest trees be made out, enormous pillars of deeper blackness. A somber monotone of wind lost in the leaves moans in the air. Yet this sound serves but to intensify the impression of the forest’s relentless immobility, to form a background throwing into relief its brooding, implacable silence.

Jones enters from the left, walking rapidly. He stops as he nears the edge of the forest, looks around him quickly, peering into the dark as if searching for some familiar landmark. Then, apparently satisfied that he is where he ought to be, he throws himself on the ground, dog-tired.

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Well, heah I is. In de nick o’ time, too! Little mo’ an’ it’d be blacker’n de ace of spades heah-abouts. (_He pulls a bandana handkerchief from his hip pocket and mops off his perspiring face._) Sho’! Gimme air! I’se tuckered out sho’ ‘nuff. Dat soft Emperor job ain’t no trainin’ for’ a long hike ovah dat plain in de brilin’ sun. (_then with a chuckle_) Cheah up, nigger, de worst is yet to come. (_He lifts his head and stares at the forest. His chuckle peters out abruptly. In a tone of awe_) My goodness, look at dem woods, will you? Dat no-count Smithers said dey’d be black an’ he sho’ called de turn. (_Turning away from them quickly and looking down at his feet, he snatches at a chance to change the subject—solicitously._) Feet, you is holdin’ up yo’ end fine an’ I sutinly hopes you ain’t blisterin’ none. It’s time you git a rest. (_He takes off his shoes, his eyes studiously avoiding the forest. He feels of the soles of his feet gingerly._) You is still in de pink—on’y a little mite feverish. Cool yo’selfs. Remember you done got a long journey yit befo’ you. (_He sits in a weary attitude, listening to the rhythmic beating of the tom-tom. He grumbles in a loud tone to cover up a growing uneasiness._) Bush niggers! Wonder dey wouldn’ git sick o’ beatin’ dat drum. Sound louder, seem like. I wonder if dey’s startin’ after me? (_He scrambles to his feet, looking back across the plain._) Couldn’t see dem now, nohow, if dey was hundred feet away. (_then shaking himself like a wet dog to get rid of these depressing thoughts_) Sho’, dey’s miles an’ miles behind. What you gittin’ fidgetty about? (_But he sits down and begins to lace up his shoes in great haste, all the time muttering reassuringly._) You know what? Yo’ belly is empty, dat’s what’s de matter wid you. Come time to eat! Wid nothin’ but wind on yo’ stumach, o’ course you feels jiggedy. Well, we eats right heah an’ now soon’s I gits dese pesky shoes laced up. (_He finishes lacing up his shoes._) Dere! Now le’s see! (_gets on his hands and knees and searches the ground around him with his eyes_) White stone, white stone, where is you? (_He sees the first white stone and crawls to it—with satisfaction._) Heah you is! I knowed dis was de right place. Box of grub, come to me. (_He turns over the stone and feels in under it—in a tone of dismay._) Ain’t heah! Gorry, is I in de right place or isn’t I? Dere’s ‘nother stone. Guess dat’s it. (_He scrambles to the next stone and turns it over._) Ain’t heah, neither! Grub, whar is you? Ain’t heah. Gorry, has I got to go hungry into dem woods — all de night? (_While he is talking he scrambles from one stone to another, turning them over in frantic haste. Finally, he jumps to his feet excitedly._) Is I lost de place? Must have! But how dat happen when I was followin’ de trail across de plain in broad daylight? (_almost plaintively_) I’se hungry, I is! I gotta git my feed. Whar’s my strength gonna come from if I doesn’t? Gorry, I gotta find dat grub high an’ low somehow! Why it come dark so quick like dat? Can’t see nothin’. (_He scratches a match on his trousers and peers about him. The rate of the beat of the far-off tom-tom increases perceptibly as he does so. He mutters in a bewildered voice._) How come all dese white stones come heah when I only remembers one? (_Suddenly, with a frightened gasp, he flings the match on the ground and stamps on it._) Nigger, is you gone crazy mad? Is you lightin’ matches to show dem whar you is? Fo’ Lawd’s sake, use yo’ haid. Gorry, I’se got to be careful! (_He stares at the plain behind him apprehensively, his hand on his revolver._) But how come all dese white stones? And whar’s dat tin box o’ grub I hid all wrapped up in oil cloth?

(_While his back is turned, the Little Formless Fears creep out from the deeper blackness of the forest. They are black, shapeless, only their glittering little eyes can be seen. If they have any describable form at all it is that of a grubworm about the size of a creeping child. They move noiselessly, but with deliberate, painful effort, striving to raise themselves on end, failing and sinking prone again. Jones turns about to face the forest. He stares up at the tops of the trees, seeking vainly to discover his whereabouts by their conformation._)

Can’t tell nothin’ from dem trees! Gorry, nothin’ ‘round heah look like I evah seed it befo’. I’se done lost de place sho’ ‘nuff! (_with mournful foreboding_) It’s mighty queer! It’s mighty queer! (_with sudden forced defiance—in an angry tone_) Woods, is you tryin’ to put somethin’ ovah on me?

(_From the formless creatures on the ground in front of him comes a tiny gale of low mocking laughter like a rustling of leaves. They squirm upward toward him in twisted attitudes. Jones looks down, leaps backward with a yell of terror, yanking out his revolver as he does join a quavering voice._) What’s dat? who’s dar? What is you? Git away from me befo’ I shoots you up! You don’t? —

(_He fires. There is a flash, a loud report,