The Hairy Ape by Eugene O’Neill (story reading .TXT) 📕

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. Scene II

Two days out. A section of the promenade deck. Mildred Douglas and her aunt are discovered reclining in deck chairs. The former is a girl of twenty, slender, delicate, with a pale, pretty face marred by a self-conscious expression of disdainful superiority. She looks fretful, nervous and discontented, bored by her own anemia. Her aunt is a pompous and proud⁠—and fat⁠—old lady. She is a type even to the point of a double chin and lorgnettes. She is dressed pretentiously, as if afraid her face alone would never indicate her position in life. Mildred is dressed all in white.

The impression to be conveyed by this scene is one of the beautiful, vivid life of the sea all about⁠—sunshine on the deck in a great flood, the fresh sea wind blowing across it. In the midst of this, these two incongruous, artificial figures, inert and disharmonious, the elder like a gray lump of dough touched up with rouge, the younger looking as if the vitality of her stock had been sapped before she was conceived, so that she is the expression not of its life energy but merely of the artificialities that energy had won for itself in the spending.

Mildred Looking up with affected dreaminess. How the black smoke swirls back against the sky! Is it not beautiful? Aunt Without looking up. I dislike smoke of any kind. Mildred My great-grandmother smoked a pipe⁠—a clay pipe. Aunt Ruffling. Vulgar! Mildred She was too distant