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

then silence broken only by the far-off, quickened throb of the tom-tom. The formless creatures have scurried back into the forest. Jones remains fixed in his position, listening intently. The sound of the shot, the reassuring feel of the revolver in his hand, have somewhat restored his shaken nerve. He addresses himself with renewed confidence._)

Dey’re gone. Dat shot fix ‘em. Dey was only little animals — little wild pigs, I reckon. Dey’ve maybe rooted out yo’ grub an’ eat it. Sho’, you fool nigger, what you think dey is — ha’nts? (_excitedly_) Gorry, you give de game away when you fire dat shot. Dem niggers heah dat fo’ su’tin! Time you beat it in de woods widout no long waits. (_He starts for the forest—hesitates before the plunge—then urging himself in with manful resolution._) Git in, nigger! What you skeered at? Ain’t nothin’ dere but de trees! Git in! (_He plunges boldly into the forest._)

SCENE THREE

_ In the forest. The moon has just risen. Its beams, drifting through the canopy of leaves, make a barely perceptible, suffused, eerie glow. A dense low wall of underbrush and creepers is in the nearer foreground, fencing in a small triangular clearing. Beyond this is the massed blackness of the forest like an encompassing barrier. A path is dimly discerned leading down to the clearing from left, rear, and winding away from it again toward the right. As the scene opens nothing can be distinctly made out. Except for the beating of the tom-tom, which is a trifle louder and quicker than in the previous scene, there is silence, broken every few seconds by a queer, clicking sound. Then gradually the figure of the negro, Jeff, can be discerned crouching on his haunches at the rear of the triangle. He is middle-aged, thin, brown in color, is dressed in a Pullman porter’s uniform, cap, etc. He is throwing a pair of dice on the ground before him, picking them up, shaking them, casting them out with the regular, rigid, mechanical movements of an automaton. The heavy, plodding footsteps of someone approaching along the trail from the left are heard and Jones’ voice, pitched in a slightly higher key and strained in a cheering effort to overcome its own tremors._

De moon’s rizen. Does you heah dat, nigger? You gits more light from dis out. No mo’ buttin’ yo’ fool head agin’ de trunks an’ scratchin’ de hide off yo’ legs in de bushes. Now you sees whar yo’se gwine. So cheer up! From now on you has a snap. (_He steps just to the rear of the triangular clearing and mops off his face on his sleeve. He has lost his Panama hat. His face is scratched, his brilliant uniform shows several large rents._) what time’s it gittin’ to be, I wonder? I dassent light no match to find out. Phoo’. It’s wa’m an’ dats a fac’! (_wearily_) How long r been makin’ tracks in dese woods? Must be hours an’ hours. Seems like fo’evah! Yit can’t be, when de moon’s jes’ riz. Dis am a long night fo’ yo’, yo’ Majesty! (_with a mournful chuckle_) Majesty! Der ain’t much majesty ‘bout dis baby now. (_with attempted cheerfulness_) Never min’. It’s all part o’ de game. Dis night come to an end like everything else. And when you gits dar safe and has dat bankroll in yo’ hands you laughs at all dis. (_He starts to whistle but checks himself abruptly._) What yo’ whistlin’ for, you po’ dope! Want all de won’ to heah you? (_He stops talking to listen._) Heah dat ole drum! Sho’ gits nearer from de sound. Dey’re packin’ it along wid ‘em. Time fo’ me to move. (_He takes a step forward, then stops—worriedly._) What’s dat odder queer clicketty sound I heah? Den it is! Sound close! Sound like—sound like—Fo’ God sake, sound like some nigger was shootin’ crap! (_frightenedly_) I better beat it quick when I gits dem notions. (_He walks quickly into the clear space—then stands transfixed as he sees Jeff in a terrified gasp._) Who dar? Who dat? Is dat you, Jeff? (_starting toward the other, forgetful for a moment of his surroundings and really believing it is a living man that he sees—in a tone of happy relief_) Jeff! I’se sho’ mighty glad to see you! Dey tol’ me you done died from dat razor cut I gives you. (_stopping suddenly, bewilderedly_) But how you come to be heah, nigger? (_He stares fascinatedly at the other who continues his mechanical play with the dice. Jones’ eyes begin to roll wildly. He stutters._) Ain’t you gwine—look up—can’t you speak to me? Is you—is you—a ha’nt? (_He jerks out his revolver in a frenzy of terrified rage._) Nigger, I kills you dead once. Has I got to kill you agin? You take it den. (_He fires. When the smoke clears away Jeff has disappeared. Jones stands trembling—then with a certain reassurance._) He’s gone, anyway. Ha’nt or no ha’nt, dat shot fix him. (_The beat of the far-off tom-tom is perceptibly louder and more rapid. Jones becomes conscious of it—with a start, looking back over his shoulder._) Dey’s gittin’ near! Dey’se comin’ fast! And heah I is shootin’ shots to let ‘em know jes’ whar I is. Oh, Gorry, I’se got to run. (_Forgetting the path he plunges wildly into the underbrush in the rear and disappears in the shadow._)

SCENE FOUR

In the forest. A wide dirt road runs diagonally from right, front, to left, rear. Rising sheer on both sides the forest walls it in. The moon is now up. Under its light the road glimmers ghastly and unreal. It is as if the forest had stood aside momentarily to let the road pass through and accomplish its veiled purpose. This done, the forest will fold in upon itself again and the road will be no more. Jones stumbles in from the forest on the right. His uniform is ragged and torn. He looks about him with numbed surprise when he sees the road, his eyes blinking in the bright moonlight. He flops down exhaustedly and pants heavily for a while. Then with sudden anger

I’m meltin’ wid heat! Runnin’ an’ runnin’ an’ runnin’! Damn dis heah coat! Like a strait jacket! (_He tears off his coat and flings it away from him., revealing himself stripped to the waist._) Den! Dat’s better! Now I kin breathe! (_Looking down at his feet, the spurs catch his eye._) And to hell wid dese high-fangled spurs. Dey’re what’s been a-trippin’ me up an’ breakin’ my neck. (_He unstraps them and flings them away disgustedly._) Dere! I gits rid o’ dem frippety Emperor trappin’s an’ I travels lighter. Lawd! I’se tired! (_after a pause, listening to the insistent beat of the tom-tom in the distance_) I must ‘a put some distance between myself an’ dem—runnin’ like dat—and yit—dat damn drum sound jes’ de same—nearer, even. Well, I guess I a’most holds my lead anyhow. Dey won’t never catch up. (_with a sigh_) If on’y my fool legs stands up. Oh, I’se sorry I evah went in for dis. Dat Emperor job is sho’ hard to shake. (_He looks around him suspiciously._) How’d dis road evah git heah? Good level road, too. I never remembers seein’ it befo’. (_shaking his head apprehensively_) Dese woods is sho’ full o’ de queerest things at night. (_with a sudden terror_) Lawd God, don’t let me see no more o’ dem ha’nts! Dey gits my goat! (_then trying to talk himself into confidence_) Ha’nts! You fool nigger, dey ain’t no such things! Don’t de Baptist parson tell you dat many time? Is you civilized, or is you like dese ign’rent black niggers heah? Sho’! Dat was all in yo’ own head. Wasn’t nothin’ dere. Wasn’t no Jeff! Know what? You jus’ get seem’ dem things ‘cause yo’ belly’s empty and you’s sick wid hunger inside. Hunger ‘fects yo’ head and yo’ eyes. Any fool know dat. (_then pleading fervently_) But bless God, I don’t come across no more o’ dem, whatever dey is! (_then cautiously_) Rest! Don’t talk! Rest! You needs it. Den you gits on yo’ way again. (_looking at the moon_) Night’s half gone a’most. You hits de coast in de mawning! Den you’se all safe.

(_From the right forward a small gang of negroes enter. They are dressed in striped convict suits, their heads are shaven, one leg drags limpingly, shackled to a heavy ball and chain. Some carry picks, the others shovels. They are followed by a white man dressed in the uniform of a prison guard. A Winchester rifle is slung across his shoulders and he carries a heavy whip. At a signal from the guard they stop on the road opposite where Jones is sitting. Jones, who has been staring up at the sky, unmindful of their noiseless approach, suddenly looks down and sees them. His eyes pop out, he tries to get to his feet and fly, but sinks back, too numbed by fright to move. His voice catches in a choking prayer._)

Lawd Jesus!

(_The prison guard cracks his whip—noiselessly—andat that signal all the convicts start to work on the road. They swing their picks, they shovel, but not a sound comes from their labor. Their movements, like those of Jeff in the preceding scene, are those of automatons,—rigid, slow, and mechanical. The prison guard points sternly at Jones with his whip, motions him to take his place among the other shovellers. Jones gets to his feet in a hypnotized stupor. He mumbles subserviently._)

Yes, suh! Yes, suh! I’se comin’.

(_As he shuffles, dragging one foot, over to his place, he curses under his breath with rage and hatred._)

God damn yo’ soul, I gits even wid you yit, sometime.

(_As if there were a shovel in his hands he goes through weary, mechanical gestures of digging up dirt, and throwing it to the roadside. Suddenly the guard approaches him angrily, threateningly. He raises his whip and lashes Jones viciously across the shoulders with it. Jones winces with pain and cowers abjectly. The guard turns his back on him and walks away contemptuously. Instantly Jones straightens up. With arms upraised as if his shovel were a club in his hands he springs murderously at the unsuspecting guard. In the act of crashing down his shovel on the white man’s skull, Jones suddenly becomes aware that his hands are empty. He cries despairingly._)

Whar’s my shovel? Gimme my shovel ‘till I splits his damn head! (Appealing to his fellow convicts) Gimme a shovel, one o’ you, fo’ God’s sake!

(_They stand fixed in motionless attitudes, their eyes on the ground. The guard seems to wait expectantly, his back turned to the attacker. Jones bellows with baffled, terrified rage, tugging frantically at his revolver._)

I kills you, you white debil, if it’s de last thing I evah does! Ghost or debil, I kill you agin!

(_He frees the revolver and fires point blank at the guard’s back. Instantly the walls of the forest close in from both sides; the road and the figures of the convict gang are blotted out in an enshrouding darkness. The only sounds are a crashing in the underbrush as Jones leaps away in mad flight and the throbbing of the tom-tom, still far distant, but increased in volume of sound and rapidity of beat._)

SCENE FIVE

A large circular clearing, enclosed by the serried ranks of gigantic trunks of tall trees whose tops are lost to view. In the center is a big dead stump—worn by time into a curious resemblance to an auction block. The moon floods the clearing with a clear light. Jones forces his way in through the forest on the left. He looks wildly about the clearing with hunted, fearful glances. His pants are in tatters, his shoes cut and misshapen, flapping about his feet. He slinks cautiously to the stump