Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) by Eugene O'Neill, Harold Bloom Page A

simper.
    Mary is paler than before and her eyes shine with unnatural brilliance. The strange detachment in her manner has intensified. She has hidden deeper within herself and found refuge and release in a dream where present reality is but an appearance to be accepted and dismissed unfeelingly—even with a hard cynicism—or entirely ignored. There is at times an uncanny gay, free youthfulness in her manner, as if in spirit she were released to become again, simply and without self-consciousness, the naive, happy, chattering schoolgirl of her convent days. She wears the dress into which she had changed for her drive to town, a simple, fairly expensive affair, which would be extremely becoming if it were not for the careless, almost slovenly way she wears it. Her hair is no longer fastidiously in place. It has a slightly disheveled, lopsided look. She talks to Cathleen with a confiding familiarity, as if the second girl were an old, intimate friend. As the curtain rises, she is standing by the screen door looking out. A moan of the foghorn is heard.
MARY
    Amused—girlishly.
    That foghorn! Isn’t it awful, Cathleen?
CATHLEEN
    Talks more familiarly than usual but never with intentional impertinence because she sincerely likes her mistress.
    It is indeed, Ma’am. It’s like a banshee.
MARY
    Goes on as if she hadn’t heard. In nearly all the following dialogue there is the feeling that she has Cathleen with her merely as an excuse to keep talking.
    I don’t mind it tonight. Last night it drove me crazy. I lay awake worrying until I couldn’t stand it any more.
CATHLEEN
    Bad cess to it. I was scared out of my wits riding back from town. I thought that ugly monkey, Smythe, would drive us in a ditch or against a tree. You couldn’t see your hand in front of you. I’m glad you had me sit in back with you, Ma’am. If I’d been in front with that monkey— He can’t keep his dirty hands to himself. Give him half a chance and he’s pinching me on the leg or you-know-where—asking your pardon, Ma’am, but it’s true.
MARY
    Dreamily.
    It wasn’t the fog I minded, Cathleen. I really love fog.
CATHLEEN
    They say it’s good for the complexion.
MARY
    It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you any more.
CATHLEEN
    I wouldn’t care so much if Smythe was a fine, handsome man like some chauffeurs I’ve seen—I mean, if it was all in fun, for I’m a decent girl. But for a shriveled runt like Smythe—! I’ve told him, you must think I’m hard up that I’d notice a monkey like you. I’ve warned him, one day I’ll give a clout that’ll knock him into next week. And so I will!
MARY
    It’s the foghorn I hate. It won’t let you alone. It keeps reminding you, and warning you, and calling you back.
    She smiles strangely.
    But it can’t tonight. It’s just an ugly sound. It doesn’t remind me of anything.
    She gives a teasing, girlish laugh.
    Except, perhaps, Mr. Tyrone’s snores. I’ve always had such fun teasing him about it. He has snored ever since I can remember, especially when he’s had too much to drink, and yet he’s like a child, he hates to admit it.
    She laughs, coming to the table.
    Well, I suppose I snore at times, too, and I don’t like to admit it. So I have no right to make fun of him, have I?
    She sits in the rocker at right of table.
CATHLEEN
    Ah, sure, everybody healthy snores. It’s a sign of sanity, they say.
    Then, worriedly.
    What time is it, Ma’am? I ought to go back in the kitchen. The damp is in Bridget’s rheumatism and she’s like a raging divil. She’ll bite my head off.
    She puts her glass on the table and makes a movement toward the back parlor.
MARY
    With a flash of apprehension.
    No, don’t go, Cathleen. I don’t want to be alone, yet.
CATHLEEN
    You won’t be for long. The Master and the boys will be home soon.
MARY
    I doubt if they’ll come back for dinner. They