Experimental O'Neill. Eugene O'Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ the Forest. Night.

      Scene V: In the Forest. Night.

      Scene VI: In the Forest. Night.

      Scene VII: In the Forest. Night.

      Scene VIII: Same as Scene Two—the edge of the Great Forest. Dawn.

      ACT I

      Scene I

      The audience chamber in the palace of the Emperor—a spacious, high-ceilinged room with bare, whitewashed walls. The floor is of white tiles. In the rear, to the left of center, a wide archway giving out on a portico with white pillars. The palace is evidently situated on high ground for beyond the portico nothing can be seen but a vista of distant hills, their summits crowned with thick groves of palm trees. In the right wall, center, a smaller arched doorway leading to the living quarters of the palace. The room is bare of furniture with the exception of one huge chair made of uncut wood which stands at center, its back to rear. This is very apparently the Emperor’s throne. It is painted a dazzling, eye-smiting scarlet. There is a brilliant orange cushion on the seat and another smaller one is placed on the floor to serve as a footstool. Strips of matting, dyed scarlet, lead from the foot of the throne to the two entrances.

      It is late afternoon but the sunlight still blazes yellowly beyond the portico and there is an oppressive burden of exhausting heat in the air.

      As the curtain rises, a native negro woman sneaks in cautiously from the entrance on the right. She is very old, dressed in cheap calico, bare-footed, a red bandana handkerchief covering all but a few stray wisps of white hair. A bundle bound in colored cloth is carried over her shoulder on a stick. She hesitates beside the doorway, peering back as if in extreme dread of being discovered. Then she begins to glide noiselessly, a step at a time, toward the doorway in the rear. At this moment, Smithers appears beneath the portico.

      Smithers is a tall, stoop-shouldered man about forty. His bald head, perched on a long neck with an enormous Adam’s apple, looks like an egg. The tropics have tanned his naturally pasty face with its small, sharp features to a sickly yellow, and native rum has painted his pointed nose to a startling red. His little, washy-blue eyes are red-rimmed and dart about him like a ferret’s. His expression is one of unscrupulous meanness, cowardly and dangerous. He is dressed in a worn riding suit of dirty white drill, puttees, spurs, and wears a white cork helmet. A cartridge belt with an automatic revolver is around his waist. He carries a riding whip in his hand. He sees the woman and stops to watch her suspiciously. Then, making up his mind, he steps quickly on tiptoe into the room. The woman, looking back over her shoulder continually, does not see him until it is too late. When she does Smithers springs forward and grabs her firmly by the shoulder. She struggles to get away, fiercely but silently.

      SMITHERS: [tightening his grasp—roughly] Easy! None o’ that, me birdie. You can’t wriggle out now I got me ‘ooks on yer.

      WOMAN: [seeing the uselessness of struggling, gives way to frantic terror, and sinks to the ground, embracing his knees supplicatingly] No tell him! No tell him, Mister!

      SMITHERS: [with great curiosity] Tell ‘im? [then scornfully] Oh, you mean ‘is bloomin’ Majesty. What’s the gaime, any’ow? What you sneakin’ away for? Been stealin’ a bit, I s’pose. [He taps her bundle with his riding whip significantly.]

      WOMAN: [shaking her head vehemently] No, me no steal.

      SMITHERS: Bloody liar! But tell me what’s up. There’s somethin’ funny goin’ on. I smelled it in the air first thing I got up this mornin’. You blacks are up to some devilment. This palace of ‘is is like a bleedin’ tomb. Where’s all the ‘ands? [The woman keeps sullenly silent. Smithers raises his whip threateningly.] Ow, yer won’t, won’t yer? I’ll show yer what’s what.

      WOMAN: [coweringly] I tell, Mister. You no hit. They go—all go. [She makes a sweeping gesture toward the hills in the distance.]

      SMITHERS: Run away—to the ‘ills?

      WOMAN: Yes, Mister. Him Emperor—Great Father. [She touches her forehead to the floor with a quick mechanical jerk.] Him sleep after eat. Then they go—all go. Me old woman. Me left only. Now me go too.

      SMITHERS: [His astonishment giving way to an immense, mean satisfaction] Ow! So that’s the ticket! Well, I know bloody well wot’s in the air—when they runs orf to the ‘ills. The tomtom ‘ll be thumping out there bloomin’ soon. [With extreme vindictiveness] And I’m bloody glad of it, for one! Serve ‘im right! Puttin’ on airs, the stinkin’ nigger! ‘Is Majesty! Gawd blimey! I only ‘opes I’m there when they takes ‘im out to shoot ‘im. [Suddenly] ‘E’s still ‘ere all right, ain’t ‘e?

      WOMAN: Yes. Him sleep.

      SMITHERS: ‘E’s bound to find out soon as wakes up. ‘E’s cunnin’ enough to know when ‘is time’s come.

      [He goes to the doorway on right and whistles shrilly with his fingers in his mouth. The old woman springs to her feet and runs out of the doorway, rear. Smithers goes after her, reaching for his revolver.] Stop or I’ll shoot! [then stopping—indifferently]

      Pop orf then, if yer like, yer black cow. [He stands in the doorway, looking after her.]

      [Jones enters from the right. He is a tall, powerfully-built, full-blooded negro of middle age. His features are typically negroid, yet there is something decidedly distinctive about his face—an underlying strength of will, a hardy, self-reliant confidence in himself that inspires respect. His eyes are alive with a keen, cunning intelligence. In manner he is shrewd, suspicious, evasive. He wears a light blue uniform coat, sprayed with brass buttons, heavy gold chevrons on his shoulders, gold braid on the collar, cuffs, etc. His pants are bright red with a light blue stripe down the side. Patent leather laced boots with brass spurs, and a belt with a long-barreled, pearl-handled revolver in a holster complete his makeup. Yet there is something not altogether ridiculous about his grandeur. He has a way of carrying it off.]

      JONES: [Not seeing anyone—greatly irritated and blinking sleepily—shouts] Who dare whistle dat way in my palace? Who dare wake up de Emperor? I’ll git de hide frayled off some o’ you niggers sho’!

      SMITHERS: [Showing himself—in a manner half-afraid and half-defiant] It was me whistled to yer. [As Jones frowns angrily] I got news for yer.

      JONES: [Putting on his suavest manner, which fails to cover up his contempt for the white man] Oh, it’s you, Mister Smithers. [He sits down on his throne with easy dignity.] What news you got to tell me?

      SMITHERS: [coming close to enjoy his discomfiture] Don’t yer notice nothin’ funny today?

      JONES: [coldly] Funny? No. I ain’t perceived nothin’ of de kind!

      SMITHERS: Then yer ain’t so foxy as I thought yer was. Where’s all your court? [sarcastically] The Generals and the Cabinet Ministers and all?

      JONES: [Imperturbably] Where dey mostly runs to minute I closes my eyes—drinkin’ rum and talkin’ big down in de town. [sarcastically] How come you don’t know dat? Ain’t you sousin’ with ‘em most everyday?

      SMITHERS: [stung but pretending indifference—with a wink] That’s part of the day’s work. I got ter—ain’t I—in my business?

      JONES: [Contemptuously] Yo’ business!

      SMITHERS: [imprudently enraged] Gawd blimey, you was glad enough for me ter take yer in СКАЧАТЬ