Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) by Eugene O'Neill, Harold Bloom Page B
Authors: Eugene O'Neill, Harold Bloom
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have too good an excuse to remain in the barrooms where they feel at home.
Cathleen stares at her, stupidly puzzled. Mary goes on smilingly.
Don’t worry about Bridget. I’ll tell her I kept you with me, and you can take a big drink of whiskey to her when you go. She won’t mind then.
CATHLEEN
Grins—at her ease again.
No, Ma’am. That’s the one thing can make her cheerful. She loves her drop.
MARY
Have another drink yourself, if you wish, Cathleen.
CATHLEEN
I don’t know if I’d better, Ma’am. I can feel what I’ve had already.
Reaching for the bottle.
Well, maybe one more won’t harm.
She pours a drink.
Here’s your good health, Ma’am.
She drinks without bothering about a chaser.
MARY
Dreamily.
I really did have good health once, Cathleen. But that was long ago.
CATHLEEN
Worried again.
The Master’s sure to notice what’s gone from the bottle. He has the eye of a hawk for that.
MARY
Amusedly.
Oh, we’ll play Jamie’s trick on him. Just measure a few drinks of water and pour them in.
CATHLEEN
Does this—with a silly giggle.
God save me, it’ll be half water. He’ll know by the taste.
MARY
Indifferently.
No, by the time he comes home he’ll be too drunk to tell the difference. He has such a good excuse, he believes, to drown his sorrows.
CATHLEEN
Philosophically.
Well, it’s a good man’s failing. I wouldn’t give a trauneen for a teetotaler. They’ve no high spirits.
Then, stupidly puzzled.
Good excuse? You mean Master Edmund, Ma’am? I can tell the Master is worried about him.
MARY
Stiffens defensively—but in a strange way the reaction has a mechanical quality, as if it did not penetrate to real emotion.
Don’t be silly, Cathleen. Why should he be? A touch of grippe is nothing. And Mr. Tyrone never is worried about anything, except money and property and the fear he’ll end his days in poverty. I mean, deeply worried. Because he cannot really understand anything else.
She gives a little laugh of detached, affectionate amusement.
My husband is a very peculiar man, Cathleen.
CATHLEEN
Vaguely resentful.
Well, he’s a fine, handsome, kind gentleman just the same, Ma’am. Never mind his weakness.
MARY
Oh, I don’t mind. I’ve loved him dearly for thirty-six years. That proves I know he’s lovable at heart and can’t help being what he is, doesn’t it?
CATHLEEN
Hazily reassured.
That’s right, Ma’am. Love him dearly, for any fool can see he worships the ground you walk on.
Fighting the effect of her last drink and trying to be soberly conversational.
Speaking of acting, Ma’am, how is it you never went on the stage?
MARY
Resentfully.
I? What put that absurd notion in your head? I was brought up in a respectable home and educated in the best convent in the Middle West. Before I met Mr. Tyrone I hardly knew there was such a thing as a theater. I was a very pious girl. I even dreamed of becoming a nun. I’ve never had the slightest desire to be an actress.
CATHLEEN
Bluntly.
Well, I can’t imagine you a holy nun, Ma’am. Sure, you never darken the door of a church, God forgive you.
MARY
Ignores this.
I’ve never felt at home in the theater. Even though Mr. Tyrone has made me go with him on all his tours, I’ve had little to do with the people in his company, or with anyone on the stage. Not that I have anything against them. They have always been kind to me, and I to them. But I’ve never felt at home with them. Their life is not my life. It has always stood between me and—
She gets up—abruptly.
But let’s not talk of old things that couldn’t be helped.
She goes to the porch door and stares out.
How thick the fog is. I can’t see the road. All the people in the world could pass by and I would never know. I wish it was always that way. It’s getting dark already. It will soon be night, thank goodness.
She turns back — vaguely.
It was kind of you to keep me company this afternoon, Cathleen. I would have been lonely driving uptown
Cathleen stares at her, stupidly puzzled. Mary goes on smilingly.
Don’t worry about Bridget. I’ll tell her I kept you with me, and you can take a big drink of whiskey to her when you go. She won’t mind then.
CATHLEEN
Grins—at her ease again.
No, Ma’am. That’s the one thing can make her cheerful. She loves her drop.
MARY
Have another drink yourself, if you wish, Cathleen.
CATHLEEN
I don’t know if I’d better, Ma’am. I can feel what I’ve had already.
Reaching for the bottle.
Well, maybe one more won’t harm.
She pours a drink.
Here’s your good health, Ma’am.
She drinks without bothering about a chaser.
MARY
Dreamily.
I really did have good health once, Cathleen. But that was long ago.
CATHLEEN
Worried again.
The Master’s sure to notice what’s gone from the bottle. He has the eye of a hawk for that.
MARY
Amusedly.
Oh, we’ll play Jamie’s trick on him. Just measure a few drinks of water and pour them in.
CATHLEEN
Does this—with a silly giggle.
God save me, it’ll be half water. He’ll know by the taste.
MARY
Indifferently.
No, by the time he comes home he’ll be too drunk to tell the difference. He has such a good excuse, he believes, to drown his sorrows.
CATHLEEN
Philosophically.
Well, it’s a good man’s failing. I wouldn’t give a trauneen for a teetotaler. They’ve no high spirits.
Then, stupidly puzzled.
Good excuse? You mean Master Edmund, Ma’am? I can tell the Master is worried about him.
MARY
Stiffens defensively—but in a strange way the reaction has a mechanical quality, as if it did not penetrate to real emotion.
Don’t be silly, Cathleen. Why should he be? A touch of grippe is nothing. And Mr. Tyrone never is worried about anything, except money and property and the fear he’ll end his days in poverty. I mean, deeply worried. Because he cannot really understand anything else.
She gives a little laugh of detached, affectionate amusement.
My husband is a very peculiar man, Cathleen.
CATHLEEN
Vaguely resentful.
Well, he’s a fine, handsome, kind gentleman just the same, Ma’am. Never mind his weakness.
MARY
Oh, I don’t mind. I’ve loved him dearly for thirty-six years. That proves I know he’s lovable at heart and can’t help being what he is, doesn’t it?
CATHLEEN
Hazily reassured.
That’s right, Ma’am. Love him dearly, for any fool can see he worships the ground you walk on.
Fighting the effect of her last drink and trying to be soberly conversational.
Speaking of acting, Ma’am, how is it you never went on the stage?
MARY
Resentfully.
I? What put that absurd notion in your head? I was brought up in a respectable home and educated in the best convent in the Middle West. Before I met Mr. Tyrone I hardly knew there was such a thing as a theater. I was a very pious girl. I even dreamed of becoming a nun. I’ve never had the slightest desire to be an actress.
CATHLEEN
Bluntly.
Well, I can’t imagine you a holy nun, Ma’am. Sure, you never darken the door of a church, God forgive you.
MARY
Ignores this.
I’ve never felt at home in the theater. Even though Mr. Tyrone has made me go with him on all his tours, I’ve had little to do with the people in his company, or with anyone on the stage. Not that I have anything against them. They have always been kind to me, and I to them. But I’ve never felt at home with them. Their life is not my life. It has always stood between me and—
She gets up—abruptly.
But let’s not talk of old things that couldn’t be helped.
She goes to the porch door and stares out.
How thick the fog is. I can’t see the road. All the people in the world could pass by and I would never know. I wish it was always that way. It’s getting dark already. It will soon be night, thank goodness.
She turns back — vaguely.
It was kind of you to keep me company this afternoon, Cathleen. I would have been lonely driving uptown
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