The Hairy Ape by Eugene O’Neill

Author:Eugene O’Neill [O’Neill, Eugene]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Social classes -- Drama, New York (N.Y.) -- Drama, Unskilled labor -- 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.

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