The Hairy Ape by Eugene O'Neill

Author:Eugene O'Neill
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Unskilled labor -- Drama, Social classes -- Drama, New York (N.Y.) -- Drama
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2020-06-12T00:43:35+00:00

Scene V

Three weeks later. A cor­ner of Fifth Av­enue in the Fifties on a fine, Sun­day morn­ing. A gen­eral at­mos­phere of clean, well-ti­died, wide street; a flood of mel­low, tem­pered sun­shine; gen­tle, gen­teel breezes. In the rear, the show win­dows of two shops, a jew­elry es­tab­lish­ment on the cor­ner, a fur­rier’s next to it. Here the adorn­ments of ex­treme wealth are tan­ta­liz­ingly dis­played. The jew­eler’s win­dow is gaudy with glit­ter­ing di­a­monds, emer­alds, ru­bies, pearls, etc., fash­ioned in or­nate tiaras, crowns, neck­laces, col­lars, etc. From each piece hangs an enor­mous tag from which a dol­lar sign and nu­mer­als in in­ter­mit­tent elec­tric lights wink out the in­cred­i­ble prices. The same in the fur­rier’s. Rich furs of all va­ri­eties hang there bathed in a down­pour of ar­ti­fi­cial light. The gen­eral ef­fect is of a back­ground of mag­nif­i­cence cheap­ened and made grotesque by com­mer­cial­ism, a back­ground in tawdry dishar­mony with the clear light and sun­shine on the street it­self.

Up the side street Yank and Long come swag­ger­ing. Long is dressed in shore clothes, wears a black Wind­sor tie, cloth cap. Yank is in his dirty dun­ga­rees. A fire­man’s cap with black peak is cocked de­fi­antly on the side of his head. He has not shaved for days and around his fierce, re­sent­ful eyes—as around those of Long to a lesser de­gree—the black smudge of coal dust still sticks like makeup. They hes­i­tate and stand to­gether at the cor­ner, swag­ger­ing, look­ing about them with a forced, de­fi­ant con­tempt.

Long Indi­cat­ing it all with an or­a­tor­i­cal ges­ture. Well, ’ere we are. Fif’ Avenoo. This ’ere’s their bleedin’ pri­vate lane, as yer might say. Bit­terly. We’re tres­passers ’ere. Pro­le­tar­i­ans keep orf the grass!

Yank Dully. I don’t see no grass, yuh boob. Star­ing at the side­walk. Clean, ain’t it? Yuh could eat a fried egg of­fen it. The white wings got some job sweepin’ dis up. Look­ing up and down the av­enue—surlily. Where’s all de white-col­lar stiffs yuh said was here—and de skoits—her kind?

Long In church, blarst ’em! Arskin’ Je­sus to give ’em more money.

Yank Choich, huh? I useter go to choich onct—sure—when I was a kid. Me old man and woman, dey made me. Dey never went dem­selves, dough. Al­ways got too big a head on Sun­day mornin’, dat was dem. With a grin. Dey was scrap­pers for fair, bot’ of dem. On Sati­day nights when dey bot’ got a skin­ful dey could put up a bout oughter been staged at de Gar­den. When dey got trough dere wasn’t a chair or ta­ble wit a leg un­der it. Or else dey bot’ jumped on me for somep’n. Dat was where I loined to take pun­ish­ment. With a grin and a swag­ger. I’m a chip of­fen de old block, get me?

Long Did yer old man fol­low the sea?

Yank Naw. Worked along shore. I runned away when me old lady croaked wit de tremens. I helped at truckin’ and in de mar­ket. Den I shipped in de stoke­hole. Sure. Dat be­longs. De rest was nothin’. Look­ing around him. I ain’t never seen dis be­fore.

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