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

a relative to be vulgar. Time mellows pipes. Aunt Pretending boredom but irritated. Did the sociology you took up at college teach you that⁠—to play the ghoul on every possible occasion, excavating old bones? Why not let your great-grandmother rest in her grave? Mildred Dreamily. With her pipe beside her⁠—puffing in Paradise. Aunt With spite. Yes, you are a natural born ghoul. You are even getting to look like one, my dear. Mildred In a passionless tone. I detest you, Aunt. Looking at her critically. Do you know what you remind me of? Of a cold pork pudding against a background of linoleum tablecloth in the kitchen of a⁠—but the possibilities are wearisome. She closes her eyes. Aunt With a bitter laugh. Merci for your candor. But since I am and must be your chaperone⁠—in appearance, at least⁠—let us patch up some sort of armed truce. For my part you are quite free to indulge any pose of eccentricity that beguiles you⁠—as long as you observe the amenities⁠— Mildred Drawling. The inanities? Aunt Going on as if she hadn’t heard. After exhausting the morbid thrills of social service work on New York’s East Side⁠—how they must have hated you, by the way, the poor that you made so much poorer in their own eyes!⁠—you are now bent on making your slumming international. Well, I hope Whitechapel will provide the needed nerve tonic. Do not ask me to chaperone you there, however. I told your father I would not. I loathe deformity. We will hire an army of detectives and you may investigate everything⁠—they allow you to see. Mildred Protesting with a trace of genuine earnestness. Please do not mock at my attempts to discover how the other half lives. Give me credit for some sort of groping sincerity in that at least. I would like to help them. I would like to be some use in the world. Is it my fault I don’t know how? I would like to be sincere, to touch life somewhere. With weary bitterness. But I’m afraid I have neither the vitality nor integrity. All that was burnt out in our stock before I was born. Grandfather’s blast furnaces, flaming to the sky, melting steel, making millions⁠—then father keeping those home fires burning, making more millions⁠—and little me at the tail-end of it all. I’m a waste product in the Bessemer process⁠—like the millions. Or rather, I inherit the acquired trait of the byproduct, wealth, but none of the energy, none of the strength of the steel that made it. I am sired by gold and darned by it, as they say at the race track⁠—damned in more ways than one. She laughs mirthlessly. Aunt Unimpressed⁠—superciliously. You seem to be going in for sincerity today. It isn’t becoming to you, really⁠—except as an obvious pose. Be as artificial as you are, I advise. There’s a sort of sincerity in that, you know. And, after all, you must confess you like that better. Mildred Again affected and bored. Yes, I suppose I do. Pardon me for my outburst. When a leopard complains of its spots, it must sound rather grotesque. In a mocking tone. Purr, little leopard. Purr, scratch, tear, kill, gorge yourself and be happy⁠—only stay in the jungle where your spots are camouflage. In a cage they make you conspicuous. Aunt I don’t know what you are talking about. Mildred It would be rude to talk about anything to you. Let’s just talk. She looks at her wrist watch. Well, thank goodness, it’s about time for them to come for me. That ought to give me a new thrill, Aunt. Aunt Affectedly troubled. You don’t mean to say you’re really going? The dirt⁠—the heat must be frightful⁠— Mildred Grandfather started as a puddler. I should have inherited an immunity to heat that would make a salamander shiver. It will be fun to put it to the test. Aunt But don’t you have to have the captain’s⁠—or someone’s⁠—permission to visit the stokehole? Mildred With a triumphant smile. I have it⁠—both his and the chief engineer’s. Oh, they didn’t want to at first, in spite of my social service credentials. They didn’t seem a bit anxious that I should investigate how the other half lives and works on a ship. So I had to tell them that my father, the president of Nazareth Steel, chairman of the board of directors of this line, had told me it would be all right. Aunt He didn’t. Mildred How naive age makes one! But I said he did, Aunt. I even said he had given me a letter to them⁠—which I had lost. And they were afraid to take the chance that I might be lying. Excitedly. So it’s ho! for the stokehole. The second engineer is to escort me. Looking at her watch again. It’s time. And here he comes, I think. The Second Engineer enters, He is a husky, fine-looking man of thirty-five or so. He stops before the two and tips his cap, visibly embarrassed and ill-at-ease. Second Engineer Miss Douglas? Mildred Yes. Throwing off her rugs and getting to her feet. Are we all ready to start? Second Engineer In just a second, ma’am. I’m waiting for the Fourth. He’s coming along. Mildred With a scornful smile. You don’t care to shoulder this responsibility alone, is that it? Second Engineer Forcing a smile. Two are better than one. Disturbed by her eyes, glances out to sea⁠—blurts out. A fine day we’re having. Mildred Is it? Second Engineer A nice warm breeze⁠— Mildred It feels cold to me. Second Engineer But it’s hot enough in the sun⁠— Mildred Not hot enough for me. I don’t like Nature. I was never athletic. Second Engineer Forcing a smile. Well, you’ll find it hot enough where you’re going. Mildred Do you mean hell? Second Engineer Flabbergasted, decides to laugh. Ho-ho! No, I mean the stokehole. Mildred My grandfather was a puddler. He played with boiling steel. Second Engineer All at sea⁠—uneasily.