"THE HAIRY APE"
A Comedy of Ancient and Modern Life
In Eight Scenes
By EUGENE O'NEILL
CHARACTERS
ROBERT SMITH, "YANK"
PADDY
LONG
MILDRED DOUGLAS
HER AUNT
SECOND ENGINEER
A GUARD
A SECRETARY OF AN ORGANIZATION
STOKERS, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, ETC.
SCENE I
SCENE--The firemen's forecastle of a transatlantic liner an hour
after sailing from New York for the voyage across. Tiers of
narrow, steel bunks, three deep, on all sides. An entrance in
rear. Benches on the floor before the bunks. The room is crowded
with men, shouting, cursing, laughing, singing--a confused,
inchoate uproar swelling into a sort of unity, a meaning--the
bewildered, furious, baffled defiance of a beast in a cage. Nearly
all the men are drunk. Many bottles are passed from hand to hand.
All are dressed in dungaree pants, heavy ugly shoes. Some wear
singlets, but the majority are stripped to the waist.
The treatment of this scene, or of any other scene in the play,
should by no means be naturalistic. The effect sought after is a
cramped space in the bowels of a ship, imprisoned by white steel.
The lines of bunks, the uprights supporting them, cross each other
like the steel framework of a cage. The ceiling crushes down upon
the men's heads. They cannot stand upright. This accentuates the
natural stooping posture which shovelling coal and the resultant
over-development of back and shoulder muscles have given them. The
men themselves should resemble those pictures in which the
appearance of Neanderthal Man is guessed at. All are hairy-
chested, with long arms of tremendous power, and low, receding
brows above their small, fierce, resentful eyes. All the civilized
white races are represented, but except for the slight
differentiation in color of hair, skin, eyes, all these men are
alike.
The curtain rises on a tumult of sound. YANK is seated in the
foreground. He seems broader, fiercer, more truculent, more
powerful, more sure of himself than the rest. They respect his
superior strength--the grudging respect of fear. Then, too, he
represents to them a self-expression, the very last word in what
they are, their most highly developed individual.
VOICES--Gif me trink dere, you!
'Ave a wet!
Salute!
Gesundheit!
Skoal!
Drunk as a lord, God stiffen you!
Here's how!
Luck!
Pass back that bottle, damn you!
Pourin' it down his neck!
Ho, Froggy! Where the devil have you been?
La Touraine.
I hit him smash in yaw, py Gott!
Jenkins--the First--he's a rotten swine--
And the coppers nabbed him--and I run--
I like peer better. It don't pig head gif you.
A slut, I'm sayin'! She robbed me aslape--
To hell with 'em all!
You're a bloody liar!
Say dot again!
[Commotion. Two men about to fight are pulled apart.]
No scrappin' now!
To-night--
See who's the best man!
Bloody Dutchman!
To-night on the for'ard square.
I'll bet on Dutchy.
He packa da wallop, I tella you!
Shut up, Wop!
No fightin', maties. We're all chums, ain't we?
[A voice starts bawling a song.]
"Beer, beer, glorious beer!
Fill yourselves right up to here."
YANK--[For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproar
about him, turns around threateningly--in a tone of contemptuous
authority.] "Choke off dat noise! Where d'yuh get dat beer stuff?
Beer, hell! Beer's for goils--and Dutchmen. Me for somep'n wit a
kick to it! Gimme a drink, one of youse guys. [Several bottles are
eagerly offered. He takes a tremendous gulp at one of them; then,
keeping the bottle in his hand, glares belligerently at the owner,
who hastens to acquiesce in this robbery by saying:] All righto,
Yank. Keep it and have another." [Yank contemptuously turns his
back on the crowd again. For a second there is an embarrassed
silence. Then--]
VOICES--We must be passing the Hook. She's beginning to roll to
it. Six days in hell--and then Southampton. Py Yesus, I vish
somepody take my first vatch for me! Gittin' seasick, Square-head?
Drink up and forget it! What's in your bottle? Gin. Dot's nigger
trink. Absinthe? It's doped. You'll go off your chump, Froggy!
Cochon! Whiskey, that's the ticket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep.
Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy. [They all turn to an old,
wizened Irishman who is dozing, very drunk, on the benches
forward. His face is extremely monkey-like with all the sad,
patient pathos of that animal in his small eyes.] Singa da song,
Caruso Pat! He's gettin' old. The drink is too much for him. He's
too drunk.
PADDY--[Blinking about him, starts to his feet resentfully,
swaying, holding on to the edge of a bunk.] I'm never too drunk to
sing. 'Tis only when I'm dead to the world I'd be wishful to sing
at all. [With a sort of sad contempt.] "Whiskey Johnny," ye want?
A chanty, ye want? Now that's a queer wish from the ugly like of
you, God help you. But no matther. [He starts to sing in a thin,
nasal, doleful tone:]
Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey! O Johnny!
[They all join in on this.]
Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey for my Johnny! [Again chorus]
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey! O Johnny!
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey for my Johnny!
YANK--[Again turning around scornfully.] Aw hell! Nix on dat old
sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead,
too, yuh damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy,
see. Give us a rest. Nix on de loud noise. [With a cynical grin.]
Can't youse see I'm tryin' to t'ink?
ALL--[Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amused
mockery.] Think! [The chorused word has a brazen metallic quality
as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a
general uproar of hard, barking laughter.]
VOICES--Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank.
You gat headache, py yingo!
One thing about it--it rhymes with drink!
Ha, ha, ha!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
[A whole chorus of voices has taken up this refrain, stamping on
the floor, pounding on the benches with fists.]
YANK--[Taking a gulp from his bottle--good-naturedly.] Aw right.
Can de noise. I got yuh de foist time. [The uproar subsides. A
very drunken sentimental tenor begins to sing:]
"Far away in Canada,
Far across the sea,
There's a lass who fondly waits
Making a home for me--"
YANK--[Fiercely contemptuous.] Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where
d'yuh get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh!
I'll knock yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get dat
tripe? Dis is home, see? What d'yuh want wit home? [Proudly.] I
runned away from mine when I was a kid. On'y too glad to beat it,
dat was me. Home was lickings for me, dat's all. But yuh can bet
your shoit noone ain't never licked me since! Wanter try it, any
of youse? Huh! I guess not. [In a more placated but still
contemptuous tone.] Goils waitin' for yuh, huh? Aw, hell! Dat's
all tripe. Dey don't wait for noone. Dey'd double-cross yuh for a
nickel. Dey're all tarts, get me? Treat 'em rough, dat's me. To
hell wit 'em. Tarts, dat's what, de whole bunch of 'em.
LONG--[Very drunk, jumps on a bench excitedly, gesticulating with
a bottle in his hand.] Listen 'ere, Comrades! Yank 'ere is right.
'E says this 'ere stinkin' ship is our 'ome. And 'e says as 'ome
is 'ell. And 'e's right! This is 'ell. We lives in 'ell, Comrades
--and right enough we'll die in it. [Raging.] And who's ter blame,
I arsks yer? We ain't. We wasn't born this rotten way. All men is
born free and ekal. That's in the bleedin' Bible, maties. But what
d'they care for the Bible--them lazy, bloated swine what travels
first cabin? Them's the ones. They dragged us down'til we're on'y
wage slaves in the bowels of a bloody ship, sweatin', burnin' up,
eatin' coal dust! Hit's them's ter blame--the damned capitalist
clarss! [There had been a gradual murmur of contemptuous
resentment rising among the men until now he is interrupted by a
storm of catcalls, hisses, boos, hard laughter.]
VOICES--Turn it off!
Shut up!
Sit down!
Closa da face!
Tamn fool! (Etc.)
YANK--[Standing up and glaring at Long.] Sit down before I knock
yuh down! [Long makes haste to efface himself. Yank goes on
contemptuously.] De Bible, huh? De Cap'tlist class, huh? Aw nix on
dat Salvation Army-Socialist bull. Git a soapbox! Hire a hall!
Come and be saved, huh? Jerk us to Jesus, huh? Aw g'wan! I've
listened to lots of guys like you, see, Yuh're all wrong. Wanter
know what I t'ink? Yuh ain't no good for noone. Yuh're de bunk.
Yuh ain't got no noive, get me? Yuh're yellow, dat's what. Yellow,
dat's you. Say! What's dem slobs in de foist cabin got to do wit
us? We're better men dan dey are, ain't we? Sure! One of us guys
could clean up de whole mob wit one mit. Put one of 'em down here
for one watch in de stokehole, what'd happen? Dey'd carry him off
on a stretcher. Dem boids don't amount to nothin'. Dey're just
baggage. Who makes dis old tub run? Ain't it us guys? Well den, we
belong, don't we? We belong and dey don't. Dat's all. [A loud
chorus of approval. Yank goes on] As for dis bein' hell--aw, nuts!
Yuh lost your noive, dat's what. Dis is a man's job, get me? It
belongs. It runs dis tub. No stiffs need apply. But yuh're a
stiff, see? Yuh're yellow, dat's you.
VOICES--[With a great hard pride in them.]
Righto!
A man's job!
Talk is cheap, Long.
He never could hold up his end.
Divil take him!
Yank's right. We make it go.
Py Gott, Yank say right ting!
We don't need noone cryin' over us.
Makin' speeches.
Throw him out!
Yellow!
Chuck him overboard!
I'll break his jaw for him!
[They crowd around Long threateningly.]
YANK--[Half good-natured again--contemptuously.] Aw, take it easy.
Leave him alone. He ain't woith a punch. Drink up. Here's how,
whoever owns dis. [He takes a long swallow from his bottle. All
drink with him. In a flash all is hilarious amiability again,
back-slapping, loud talk, etc.]
PADDY--[Who has been sitting in a blinking, melancholy daze--
suddenly cries out in a voice full of old sorrow.] We belong to
this, you're saying? We make the ship to go, you're saying? Yerra
then, that Almighty God have pity on us! [His voice runs into the
wail of a keen, he rocks back and forth on his bench. The men
stare at him, startled and impressed in spite of themselves.] Oh,
to be back in the fine days of my youth, ochone! Oh, there was
fine beautiful ships them days--clippers wid tall masts touching
the sky--fine strong men in them--men that was sons of the sea as
if 'twas the mother that bore them. Oh, the clean skins of them,
and the clear eyes, the straight backs and full chests of them!
Brave men they was, and bold men surely! We'd be sailing out,
bound down round the Horn maybe. We'd be making sail in the dawn,
with a fair breeze, singing a chanty song wid no care to it. And
astern the land would be sinking low and dying out, but we'd give
it no heed but a laugh, and never a look behind. For the day that
was, was enough, for we was free men--and I'm thinking 'tis only
slaves do be giving heed to the day that's gone or the day to come
--until they're old like me. [With a sort of religious
exaltation.] Oh, to be scudding south again wid the power of the
Trade Wind driving her on steady through the nights and the days!
Full sail on her! Nights and days! Nights when the foam of the
wake would be flaming wid fire, when the sky'd be blazing and
winking wid stars. Or the full of the moon maybe. Then you'd see
her driving through the gray night, her sails stretching aloft all
silver and white, not a sound on the deck, the lot of us dreaming
dreams, till you'd believe'twas no real ship at all you was on but
a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman they say does be roaming the
seas forevermore widout touching a port. And there was the days,
too. A warm sun on the clean decks. Sun warming the blood of you,
and wind over the miles of shiny green ocean like strong drink to
your lungs. Work--aye, hard work--but who'd mind that at all?
Sure, you worked under the sky and 'twas work wid skill and daring
to it. And wid the day done, in the dog watch, smoking me pipe at
ease, the lookout would be raising land maybe, and we'd see the
mountains of South Americy wid the red fire of the setting sun
painting their white tops and the clouds floating by them! [His
tone of exaltation ceases. He goes on mournfully.] Yerra, what's
the use of talking? 'Tis a dead man's whisper. [To Yank
resentfully.] 'Twas them days men belonged to ships, not now.
'Twas them days a ship was part of the sea, and a man was part of
a ship, and the sea joined all together and made it one.
[Scornfully.] Is it one wid this you'd be, Yank--black smoke from
the funnels smudging the sea, smudging the decks--the bloody
engines pounding and throbbing and shaking--wid divil a sight of
sun or a breath of clean air--choking our lungs wid coal dust--
breaking our backs and hearts in the hell of the stokehole--
feeding the bloody furnace--feeding our lives along wid the coal,
I'm thinking--caged in by steel from a sight of the sky like
bloody apes in the Zoo! [With a harsh laugh.] Ho-ho, divil mend
you! Is it to belong to that you're wishing? Is it a flesh and
blood wheel of the engines you'd be?
YANK--[Who has been listening with a contemptuous sneer, barks out
the answer.] Sure ting! Dat's me! What about it?
PADDY--[As if to himself--with great sorrow.] Me time is past due.
That a great wave wid sun in the heart of it may sweep me over the
side sometime I'd be dreaming of the days that's gone!
YANK--Aw, yuh crazy Mick! [He springs to his feet and advances on
Paddy threateningly--then stops, fighting some queer struggle
within himself--lets his hands fall to his sides--contemptuously.]
Aw, take it easy. Yuh're aw right, at dat. Yuh're bugs, dat's all
--nutty as a cuckoo. All dat tripe yuh been pullin'--Aw, dat's
all right. On'y it's dead, get me? Yuh don't belong no more, see.
Yuh don't get de stuff. Yuh're too old. [Disgustedly.] But aw say,
come up for air onct in a while, can't yuh? See what's happened
since yuh croaked. [He suddenly bursts forth vehemently, growing
more and more excited.] Say! Sure! Sure I meant it! What de hell--
Say, lemme talk! Hey! Hey, you old Harp! Hey, youse guys! Say,
listen to me--wait a moment--I gotter talk, see. I belong and he
don't. He's dead but I'm livin'. Listen to me! Sure I'm part of de
engines! Why de hell not! Dey move, don't dey? Dey're speed, ain't
dey? Dey smash trou, don't dey? Twenty-five knots a hour! Dat's
goin' some! Dat's new stuff! Dat belongs! But him, he's too old.
He gets dizzy. Say, listen. All dat crazy tripe about nights and
days; all dat crazy tripe about stars and moons; all dat crazy
tripe about suns and winds, fresh air and de rest of it--Aw hell,
dat's all a dope dream! Hittin' de pipe of de past, dat's what
he's doin'. He's old and don't belong no more. But me, I'm young!
I'm in de pink! I move wit it! It, get me! I 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, fie 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]
