Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) by Eugene O'Neill, Harold Bloom
Authors: Eugene O'Neill, Harold Bloom
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Now I have to lie, especially to myself. But how can you understand, when I don’t myself. I’ve never understood anything about it, except that one day long ago I found I could no longer call my soul my own.
She pauses—then lowering her voice to a strange tone of whispered confidence.
But some day, dear, I will find it again—some day when you’re all well, and I see you healthy and happy and successful, and I don’t have to feel guilty any more—some day when the Blessed Virgin Mary forgives me and gives me back the faith in Her love and pity I used to have in my convent days, and I can pray to Her again—when She sees no one in the world can believe in me even for a moment any more, then She will believe in me, and with Her help it will be so easy. I will hear myself scream with agony, and at the same time I will laugh because I will be so sure of myself.
Then as Edmund remains hopelessly silent, she adds sadly.
Of course, you can’t believe that, either.
She rises from the arm of his chair and goes to stare out the windows at right with her back to him—casually.
Now I think of it, you might as well go uptown. I forgot I’m taking a drive. I have to go to the drugstore. You would hardly want to go there with me. You’d be so ashamed.
EDMUND
Brokenly.
Mama! Don’t!
MARY
I suppose you’ll divide that ten dollars your father gave you with Jamie. You always divide with each other, don’t you? Like good sports. Well, I know what he’ll do with his share. Get drunk someplace where he can be with the only kind of woman he understands or likes.
She turns to him, pleading frightenedly.
Edmund! Promise me you won’t drink! It’s so dangerous! You know Doctor Hardy told you—
EDMUND
Bitterly.
I thought he was an old idiot. Anyway, by tonight, what will you care?
MARY
Pitifully.
Edmund!
Jamie’s voice is heard from the front hall, “Come on, Kid, let’s beat it.”
Mary’s manner at once becomes detached again.
Go on, Edmund. Jamie’s waiting.
She goes to the front-parlor doorway.
There comes your father downstairs, too.
Tyrone’s voice calls, “Come on, Edmund.”
EDMUND
Jumping up from his chair.
I’m coming.
He stops beside her—without looking at her.
Goodbye, Mama.
MARY
Kisses him with detached affection.
Goodbye, dear. If you’re coming home for dinner, try not to be late. And tell your father. You know what Bridget is.
He turns and hurries away. Tyrone calls from the hall, “Goodbye, Mary,” and then Jamie, “Goodbye, Mama.”
She calls back.
Goodbye.
The front screen door is heard closing after them. She comes and stands by the table, one hand drumming on it, the other fluttering up to pat her hair. She stares about the room with frightened, forsaken eyes and whispers to herself.
It’s so lonely here.
Then her face hardens into bitter self-contempt.
You’re lying to yourself again. You wanted to get rid of them. Their contempt and disgust aren’t pleasant company. You’re glad they’re gone.
She gives a little despairing laugh.
Then Mother of God, why do I feel so lonely?
CURTAIN
Act Three
SCENE
The same. It is around half past six in the evening. Dusk is gathering in the living room, an early dusk due to the fog which has rolled in from the Sound and is like a white curtain drawn down outside the windows. From a lighthouse beyond the harbor’s mouth, a foghorn is heard at regular intervals, moaning like a mournful whale in labor, and from the harbor itself, intermittently, comes the warning ringing of bells on yachts at anchor.
The tray with the bottle of whiskey, glasses, and pitcher of ice water is on the table, as it was in the pre-luncheon scene of the previous act.
Mary and the second girl, Cathleen, are discovered. The latter is standing at left of table. She holds an empty whiskey glass in her hand as if she’d forgotten she had it. She shows the effects of drink. Her stupid, good-humored face wears a pleased and flattered
She pauses—then lowering her voice to a strange tone of whispered confidence.
But some day, dear, I will find it again—some day when you’re all well, and I see you healthy and happy and successful, and I don’t have to feel guilty any more—some day when the Blessed Virgin Mary forgives me and gives me back the faith in Her love and pity I used to have in my convent days, and I can pray to Her again—when She sees no one in the world can believe in me even for a moment any more, then She will believe in me, and with Her help it will be so easy. I will hear myself scream with agony, and at the same time I will laugh because I will be so sure of myself.
Then as Edmund remains hopelessly silent, she adds sadly.
Of course, you can’t believe that, either.
She rises from the arm of his chair and goes to stare out the windows at right with her back to him—casually.
Now I think of it, you might as well go uptown. I forgot I’m taking a drive. I have to go to the drugstore. You would hardly want to go there with me. You’d be so ashamed.
EDMUND
Brokenly.
Mama! Don’t!
MARY
I suppose you’ll divide that ten dollars your father gave you with Jamie. You always divide with each other, don’t you? Like good sports. Well, I know what he’ll do with his share. Get drunk someplace where he can be with the only kind of woman he understands or likes.
She turns to him, pleading frightenedly.
Edmund! Promise me you won’t drink! It’s so dangerous! You know Doctor Hardy told you—
EDMUND
Bitterly.
I thought he was an old idiot. Anyway, by tonight, what will you care?
MARY
Pitifully.
Edmund!
Jamie’s voice is heard from the front hall, “Come on, Kid, let’s beat it.”
Mary’s manner at once becomes detached again.
Go on, Edmund. Jamie’s waiting.
She goes to the front-parlor doorway.
There comes your father downstairs, too.
Tyrone’s voice calls, “Come on, Edmund.”
EDMUND
Jumping up from his chair.
I’m coming.
He stops beside her—without looking at her.
Goodbye, Mama.
MARY
Kisses him with detached affection.
Goodbye, dear. If you’re coming home for dinner, try not to be late. And tell your father. You know what Bridget is.
He turns and hurries away. Tyrone calls from the hall, “Goodbye, Mary,” and then Jamie, “Goodbye, Mama.”
She calls back.
Goodbye.
The front screen door is heard closing after them. She comes and stands by the table, one hand drumming on it, the other fluttering up to pat her hair. She stares about the room with frightened, forsaken eyes and whispers to herself.
It’s so lonely here.
Then her face hardens into bitter self-contempt.
You’re lying to yourself again. You wanted to get rid of them. Their contempt and disgust aren’t pleasant company. You’re glad they’re gone.
She gives a little despairing laugh.
Then Mother of God, why do I feel so lonely?
CURTAIN
Act Three
SCENE
The same. It is around half past six in the evening. Dusk is gathering in the living room, an early dusk due to the fog which has rolled in from the Sound and is like a white curtain drawn down outside the windows. From a lighthouse beyond the harbor’s mouth, a foghorn is heard at regular intervals, moaning like a mournful whale in labor, and from the harbor itself, intermittently, comes the warning ringing of bells on yachts at anchor.
The tray with the bottle of whiskey, glasses, and pitcher of ice water is on the table, as it was in the pre-luncheon scene of the previous act.
Mary and the second girl, Cathleen, are discovered. The latter is standing at left of table. She holds an empty whiskey glass in her hand as if she’d forgotten she had it. She shows the effects of drink. Her stupid, good-humored face wears a pleased and flattered
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