Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (21 page)

He grins wryly.

It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!

Stares at him—impressed.

Yes, there’s the makings of a poet in you all right.

Then protesting uneasily.

But that’s morbid craziness about not being wanted and loving death.

Sardonically.

The
makings
of a poet. No, I’m afraid I’m like the guy who is always panhandling for a smoke. He hasn’t even got the makings. He’s got only the habit. I couldn’t touch what I tried to tell you just now. I just stammered. That’s the best I’ll ever do, I mean, if I live. Well, it will be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people.

A pause. Then they both jump startledly as there is a noise from outside the house, as if someone had stumbled and fallen on the front steps. Edmund grins.

Well, that sounds like the absent brother. He must have a peach of a bun on.

Scowling.

That loafer! He caught the last car, bad luck to it.

He gets to his feet.

Get him to bed, Edmund. I’ll go out on the porch. He has a tongue like an adder when he’s drunk. I’d only lose my temper.

He goes out the door to the side porch as the front door in the hall bangs shut behind Jamie. Edmund watches with amusement Jamie’s wavering progress through the front parlor. Jamie comes in. He is very drunk and woozy on his legs. His eyes are glassy, his face bloated, his speech blurred, his mouth slack like his father’s, a leer on his lips.

Swaying and blinking in the doorway—in a loud voice.

What ho! What ho!

Sharply.

Nix on the loud noise!

Blinks at him.

Oh, hello, Kid.

With great seriousness.

I’m as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch.

Dryly.

Thanks for telling me your great secret.

Grins foolishly.

Yes. Unneshesary information Number One, eh?

He bends and slaps at the knees of his trousers.

Had serious accident. The front steps tried to trample on me. Took advantage of fog to waylay me. Ought to be a lighthouse out there. Dark in here, too.

Scowling.

What the hell is this, the morgue? Lesh have some light on subject.

He sways forward to the table, reciting Kipling.

“Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,
Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an’ they will surely guide you
’Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.”

He fumbles at the chandelier and manages to turn on the three bulbs.

Thash more like it. To hell with old Gaspard. Where is the old tightwad?

Out on the porch.

Can’t expect us to live in the Black Hole of Calcutta.

His eyes fix on the full bottle of whiskey.

Say! Have I got the d.t.’s?

He reaches out fumblingly and grabs it.

By God, it’s real. What’s matter with the Old Man tonight? Must be ossified to forget he left this out. Grab opportunity by the forelock. Key to my success.

He slops a big drink into a glass.

You’re stinking now. That will knock you stiff.

Wisdom from the mouth of babes. Can the wise stuff, Kid. You’re still wet behind the ears.

He lowers himself into a chair, holding the drink carefully aloft.

All right. Pass out if you want to.

Can’t, that’s trouble. Had enough to sink a ship, but can’t sink. Well, here’s hoping.

He drinks.

Shove over the bottle. I’ll have one, too.

With sudden, big-brotherly solicitude, grabbing the bottle.

No, you don’t. Not while I’m around. Remember doctor’s orders. Maybe no one else gives a damn if you die, but I do. My kid brother. I love your guts, Kid. Everything else is gone. You’re all I’ve got left.

Pulling bottle closer to him.

So no booze for you, if I can help it.

Beneath his drunken sentimentality there is a genuine sincerity.

Irritably.

Oh, lay off it.

Is hurt and his face hardens.

You don’t believe I care, eh? Just drunken bull.

He shoves the bottle over.

All right. Go ahead and kill yourself.

Seeing he is hurt—affectionately.

Sure I know you care, Jamie, and I’m going on the wagon. But tonight doesn’t count. Too many damned things have happened today.

He pours a drink.

Here’s how.

He drinks.

Sobers up momentarily and with a pitying look.

I know, Kid. It’s been a lousy day for you.

Then with sneering cynicism.

I’ll bet old Gaspard hasn’t tried to keep you off booze. Probably give you a case to take with you to the state farm for pauper patients. The sooner you kick the bucket, the less expense.

With contemptuous hatred.

What a bastard to have for a father! Christ, if you put him in a book, no one would believe it!

Defensively.

Oh, Papa’s all right, if you try to understand him—and keep your sense of humor.

Cynically.

He’s been putting on the old sob act for you, eh? He can always kid you. But not me. Never again.

Then slowly.

Although, in a way, I do feel sorry for him about one thing. But he has even that coming to him. He’s to blame.

Hurriedly.

But to hell with that.

He grabs the bottle and pours another drink, appearing very drunk again.

That lash drink’s getting me. This one ought to put the lights out. Did you tell Gaspard I got it out of Doc Hardy this sanatorium is a charity dump?

Reluctantly.

Yes. I told him I wouldn’t go there. It’s all settled now. He said I can go anywhere I want.

He adds, smiling without resentment.

Within reason, of course.

Drunkenly imitating his father.

Of course, lad. Anything within reason.

Sneering.

That means another cheap dump. Old Gaspard, the miser in “The Bells,” that’s a part he can play without make-up.

Irritably.

Oh, shut up, will you. I’ve heard that Gaspard stuff a million times.

Shrugs his shoulders—thickly.

Aw right, if you’re shatisfied—let him get away with it. It’s your funeral—I mean, I hope it won’t be.

Changing the subject.

What did you do uptown tonight? Go to Mamie Burns?

Very drunk, his head nodding.

Sure thing. Where else could I find suitable feminine companionship? And love. Don’t forget love. What is a man without a good woman’s love? A God-damned hollow shell.

Chuckles tipsily, letting himself go now and be drunk.

You’re a nut.

Quotes with gusto from Oscar Wilde’s “The Harlot’s House.”

“Then, turning to my love, I said,
The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”

But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz …”

He breaks off, thickly.

Not strictly accurate. If my love was with me, I didn’t notice it. She must have been a ghost.

He pauses.

Guess which one of Mamie’s charmers I picked to bless me with her woman’s love. It’ll hand you a laugh, Kid. I picked Fat Violet.

Laughs drunkenly.

No, honest? Some pick! God, she weighs a ton. What the hell for, a joke?

No joke. Very serious. By the time I hit Mamie’s dump I felt very sad about myself and all the other poor bums in the world. Ready for a weep on any old womanly bosom. You know how you get when John Barleycorn turns on the soft music inside you. Then, soon as I got in the door, Mamie began telling me all her troubles. Beefed how rotten business was, and she was going to give Fat Violet the gate. Customers didn’t fall for Vi. Only reason she’d kept her was she could play the piano. Lately Vi’s gone on drunks and been too boiled to play, and was eating her out of house and home, and although Vi was a goodhearted dumbbell, and she felt sorry for her because she didn’t know how the hell she’d make a living, still business was business, and she couldn’t afford to run a home for fat tarts. Well, that made me feel sorry for Fat Violet, so I squandered two bucks of your dough to escort her upstairs. With no dishonorable intentions whatever. I like them fat, but not that fat. All I wanted was a little heart-to-heart talk concerning the infinite sorrow of life.

Chuckles drunkenly.

Poor Vi! I’ll bet you recited Kipling and Swinburne and Dowson and gave her “I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.”

Grins loosely.

Sure—with the Old Master, John Barleycorn, playing soft music. She stood it for a while. Then she got good and sore. Got the idea I took her upstairs for a joke. Gave me a grand bawling out. Said she was better than a drunken bum who recited poetry. Then she began to cry. So I had to say I loved her because she was fat, and she wanted to believe that, and I stayed with her to prove it, and that cheered her up, and she kissed me when I left, and said she’d fallen hard for me, and we both cried a little more in the hallway, and everything was fine, except Mamie Burns thought I’d gone bughouse.

Quotes derisively.

                               "Harlots and

Hunted have pleasures of their own to give,
The vulgar herd can never understand.”

Nods his head drunkenly.

Egzactly! Hell of a good time, at that. You should have stuck around with me, Kid. Mamie Burns inquired after you. Sorry to hear you were sick. She meant it, too.

He pauses—then with maudlin humor, in a ham-actor tone.

This night has opened my eyes to a great career in store for me, my boy! I shall give the art of acting back to the performing seals, which are its most perfect expression. By applying my natural God-given talents in their proper sphere, I shall attain the pinnacle of success! I’ll be the lover of the fat woman in Barnum and Bailey’s circus!

Edmund laughs. Jamie’s mood changes to arrogant disdain.

Pah! Imagine me sunk to the fat girl in a hick town hooker shop! Me! Who have made some of the best-lookers on Broadway sit up and beg!

He quotes from Kipling’s “Sestina of the Tramp-Royal.”

“Speakin’ in general, I ‘ave tried ‘em all,
The ’appy roads that take you o’er the world.”

With sodden melancholy.

Not so apt. Happy roads is bunk. Weary roads is right. Get you nowhere fast. That’s where I’ve got—nowhere. Where everyone lands in the end, even if most of the suckers won’t admit it.

Derisively.

Can it! You’ll be crying in a minute.

Starts and stares at his brother for a second with bitter hostility—thickly.

Don’t get—too damned fresh.

Then abruptly.

But you’re right. To hell with repining! Fat Violet’s a good kid. Glad I stayed with her. Christian act. Cured her blues. Hell of a good time. You should have stuck with me, Kid. Taken your mind off your troubles. What’s the use coming home to get the blues over what can’t be helped. All over—finished now—not a hope!