Three Great Plays

The Emperor Jones, Anna Christie and The Hairy Ape

Eugene O'Neill

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780486112503
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Amerikanische Dramaturgie

Winner of the Nobel Prize for literature and four Pulitzer prizes, Eugene O'Neill is generally acknowledged as America's greatest playwright. This volume includes three of the writer's early, influential works:
The Emperor Jones presents a forceful powerful psychological portrayal of brute power, fear, and madness as it traces events in the life of the self-proclaimed ruler of a West Indian island, who attempts to flee both his angry countrymen and personal demons.
The Hairy Ap e combines elements of class struggle and surreal tragedy as it explores the dehumanization of a crew member on a transatlantic liner.
Anna Christi e displays O'Neill's skills of character development as he focuses on the relationship of a sailor and his long-lost daughter, who reveals an unsavory secret about her past.
Essential reading for students of theater and literature, this collection will appeal to anyone interested in the seminal work of a writer who became one of the most vital forces in the American theater.

Anna Christie

Characters

“JOHNNY-THE-PRIEST”

TWO LONGSHOREMEN

A POSTMAN

LARRY, bartender

CHRIS CHRISTOPHERSON, captain of the barge Simeon Winthrop

MARTHY OWEN

ANNA CHRISTOPHERSON, Chris’ daughter

THREE MEN OF A STEAMER’S CREW

MAT BURKE, a stoker

JOHNSON, deckhand on the barge

ACT ONE

SCENE—“JOHNNY-THE-PRIEST’S” saloon near South Street, New York City. The stage is divided into two sections, showing a small back room on the right. On the left, forward, of the barroom, a large window looking out on the street. Beyond it, the main entrance—a double swinging door. Farther back, another window. The bar runs from left to right nearly the whole length of the rear wall. In back of the bar, a small show-case displaying a few bottles of case goods, for which there is evidently little call. The remainder of the rear space in front of the large mirrors is occupied by half-barrels of cheap whisky of the “nickel-a-shot” variety, from which the liquor is drawn by means of spigots. On the right is an open doorway leading to the back room. In the back room are four round wooden tables with five chairs grouped about each. In the rear, a family entrance opening on a side street.

It is late afternoon of a day in fall.

As the curtain rises, JOHNNY is discovered. “JOHNNY-THE-PRIEST” deserves his nickname. With his pale, thin, clean-shaven face, mild blue eyes and white hair, a cassock would seem more suited to him than the apron he wears. Neither his voice nor his general manner dispel this illusion which has made him a personage of the waterfront. They are soft and bland. But beneath all his mildness one senses the man behind the mask—cynical, callous, hard as nails. He is lounging at ease behind the bar, a pair of spectacles on his nose, reading an evening paper.

Two longshoremen enter from the street, wearing their working aprons, the button of the union pinned conspicuously on the caps pulled sideways on their heads at an aggressive angle.

FIRST LONGSHOREMAN: [As they range themselves at the bar] Gimme a shock. Number Two. [He tosses a coin on the bar]

SECOND LONGSHOREMAN: Same here.

[JOHNNY sets two glasses of barrel whisky before them]

FIRST LONGSHOREMAN: Here’s luck!

[The other nods. They gulp down their whisky]

SECOND LONGSHOREMAN: [Putting money on the bar] Give us another.

FIRST LONGSHOREMAN: Gimme a scoop this time—lager and porter. I’m dry.

SECOND LONGSHOREMAN: Same here.

[JOHNNY draws the lager and porter and sets the big, foaming schooners before them. They drink down half the contents and start to talk together hurriedly in low tones. The door on the left is swung open and LARRY enters. He is a boyish, red-cheeked, rather good-looking young fellow of twenty or so]

LARRY: [Nodding to JOHNNY—cheerily] Hello, boss.

JOHNNY: Hello, Larry. [With a glance at his watch] Just on time. [LARRY goes to the right behind the bar, takes off his coat, and puts on an apron]

FIRST LONGSHOREMAN: [Abruptly] Let’s drink up and get back to it.

[They finish their drinks and go out left. THE POSTMAN enters as they leave.

He exchanges nods with JOHNNY and throws a letter on the bar]

THE POSTMAN: Addressed care of you, Johnny. Know him?

JOHNNY: [Picks up the letter, adjusting his spectacles. LARRY comes and peers over his shoulders. JOHNNY reads very slowly] Christopher Christopherson.

THE POSTMAN: [Helpfully] Square-head name.

LARRY: Old Chris—that’s who.

JOHNNY: Oh, sure. I was forgetting Chris carried a hell of a name like that. Letters come here for him sometimes before, I remember now. Long time ago, though.

THE POSTMAN: It’ll get him all right then?

JOHNNY: Sure thing. He comes here whenever he’s in port.

THE POSTMAN: [Turning to go] Sailor, eh?

JOHNNY: [With a grin] Captain of a coal barge.

THE POSTMAN: [Laughing] Some job! Well, s’long.

JOHNNY: S’long. I’ll see he gets it.

[THE POSTMAN goes out. JOHNNY scrutinizes the letter] You got good eyes, Larry. Where’s it from?

LARRY: [After a glance] St. Paul. That’ll be in Minnesota, I’m thinkin’. Looks like a woman’s writing, too, the old divil!

JOHNNY: He’s got a daughter somewhere’s out West, I think he told me once. [He puts the letter on the cash register] Come to think of it, I ain’t seen old Chris in a dog’s age. [Putting his overcoat on, he comes around the end of the bar] Guess I’ll be gettin’ home. See you tomorrow.

LARRY: Good-night to ye, boss.

[As JOHNNY goes toward the street door, it is pushed open and CHRISTOPHER CHRISTOPHERSON enters. He is a short, squat, broad-shouldered man of about fifty, with a round, weather-beaten, red face from which his light blue eyes peer short-sightedly, twinkling with a simple good humor. His large mouth, overhung by a thick, drooping, yellow mustache, is childishly self-willed and weak, of an obstinate kindliness. A thick neck is jammed like a post into the heavy trunk of his body. His arms with their big, hairy, freckled hands, and his stumpy legs terminating in large flat feet, are awkwardly short and muscular. He walks with a clumsy, rolling gait. His voice, when not raised in a hollow boom, is toned down to a sly, confidential half-whisper with something vaguely plaintive in its quality. He is dressed in a wrinkled, ill-fitting dark suit of shore clothes, and wears a faded cap of gray cloth over his mop of grizzled, blond hair. Just now his face beams with a too-blissful happiness, and he has evidently been drinking. He reaches his hand out to JOHNNY]

CHRIS: Hello, Yohnny! Have drink on me. Come on, Larry. Give us drink. Have one yourself. [Putting his hand in his pocket] Ay gat money—plenty money.

JOHNNY: [Shakes CHRIS by the hand] Speak of the devil. We was just talkin’ about you.

LARRY: [Coming to the end of the bar] Hello, Chris. Put it there.

[They shake hands]

CHRIS: [Beaming] Give us drink.

JOHNNY: [With a grin] You got a half-snootful now. Where’d you get it?

CHRIS: [Grinning] Oder fallar on oder barge—Irish fallar—he gat bottle vhisky and we drank it, yust us two. Dot vhisky gat kick, by yingo! Ay yust come ashore. Give us drink, Larry. Ay vas little drunk, not much. Yust feel good. [He laughs and commences to sing in a nasal, high-pitched quaver]

“My Yosephine, come board de ship. Long time Ay vait for you.

De moon, she shi-i-i-ine. She looka yust like you.

Tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee.”

[To the accompaniment of this last he waves his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra]

JOHNNY: [With a laugh] Same old Yosie, eh, Chris?

CHRIS: You don’t know good song when you hear him. Italian fallar on oder barge, he learn me dat. Give us drink. [He throws change on the bar]

LARRY: [With a professional air] What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?

JOHNNY: Small beer, Larry.

CHRIS: Vhisky—Number Two.

LARRY: [As he gets their drinks] I’ll take a cigar on you.

CHRIS: [Lifting his glass] Skoal! [He drinks]

JOHNNY: Drink hearty.

CHRIS: [Immediately] Have oder drink.

JOHNNY: No. Some other time. Got to go home now. So you’ve just landed? Where are you in from this time?

CHRIS: Norfolk. Ve make slow voyage—dirty vedder—yust fog, fog, fog, all bloody time! [There is an insistent ring from the doorbell at the family entrance in the back room. CHRIS gives a start—hurriedly] Ay go open, Larry. Ay forgat. It vas Marthy. She come with me. [He goes into the back room]

LARRY: [With a chuckle] He’s still got that same cow livin’ with him, the old fool!

JOHNNY: [With a grin] A sport, Chris is. Well, I’ll beat it home. S’long. [He goes to the street door]

LARRY: So long, boss.

JOHNNY: Oh—don’t forget to give him his letter.

LARRY: I won’t.

[JOHNNY goes out. In the meantime, CHRIS has opened the family entrance door, admitting MARTHY. She might be forty or fifty. Her jowly, mottled face, with its thick red nose, is streaked with interlacing purple veins. Her thick, gray hair is piled anyhow in a greasy mop on top of her round head. Her figure is flabby and fat; her breath comes in wheezy gasps; she speaks in a loud, mannish voice, punctuated by explosions of hoarse laughter. But there still twinkles in her blood-shot blue eyes a youthful lust for life which hard usage has failed to stifle, a sense of humor mocking, but good-tempered. She wears a man’s cap, double-breasted man’s jacket, and a grimy, calico skirt. Her bare feet are encased in a man’s brogans several sizes too large for her, which gives her a shuffling gait]

MARTHY: [Grumblingly] What yuh tryin’ to do, Dutchy—keep me standin’ out there all day? [She comes forward and sits at the table in the right corner, front]

CHRIS: [Mollifyingly] Ay’m sorry, Marthy. Ay talk to Yohnny. Ay forgat. What you goin’ take for drink?

MARTHY: [Appeased] Gimme a scoop of lager an’ ale.

CHRIS: Ay go bring him back. [He returns to the bar] Lager and ale for Marthy, Larry. Vhisky for me. [He throws change on the bar]

LARRY: Right you are. [Then remembering, he takes the letter from in back of the bar] Here’s a letter for you—from St. Paul, Minnesota—and a lady’s writin’. [He grins]

CHRIS: [Quickly—taking it] Oh, den it come from my daughter, Anna. She live dere. [He turns the letter over in his hands uncertainly] Ay don’t gat letter from Anna—must be a year.

LARRY: [Jokingly] That’s a fine fairy tale to be tellin’—your daughter! Sure I’ll bet it’s some bum.

CHRIS: [Soberly] No. Dis come from Anna. [Engrossed by the letter in his hand—uncertainly] By golly, Ay tank Ay’m too drunk for read dis letter from Anna. Ay tank Ay sat down ...