Experimental O'Neill. Eugene O'Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ and you’s sick wid hunger inside. Hunger ‘fects yo’ head and yo’ eyes. Any fool know dat.

      [then pleading fervently] But bless God, I don’t come across no more o’ dem, whatever dey is!

      [Then cautiously] Rest! Don’t talk! Rest! You needs it. Den you gits on yo’ way again.

      [Looking at the moon]

      Night’s half gone a’most. You hits de coast in de mawning! Den you’se all safe

      [From the right forward a small gang of negroes enter. They are dressed in striped convict suits, their heads are shaven, one leg drags limpingly, shackled to a heavy ball and chain. Some carry picks, the others shovels. They are followed by a white man dressed in the uniform of a prison guard. A Winchester rifle is slung across his shoulders and he carries a heavy whip. At a signal from the guard they stop on the road opposite where Jones is sitting. Jones, who has been staring up at the sky, unmindful of their noiseless approach, suddenly looks down and sees them. His eyes pop out, he tries to get to his feet and fly, but sinks back, too numbed by fright to move. His voice catches in a choking prayer.]

      Lawd Jesus!

      [The prison guard cracks his whip—noiselessly—and at that signal all the convicts start to work on the road. They swing their picks, they shovel, but not a sound comes from their labor. Their movements, like those of Jeff in the preceding scene, are those of automatons,—rigid, slow, and mechanical. The prison guard points sternly at Jones with his whip, motions him to take his place among the other shovelers. Jones gets to his feet in a hypnotized stupor. He mumbles subserviently.]

      Yes, suh! Yes, suh! I’se comin’.

      [As he shuffles, dragging one foot, over to his place, he curses under his breath with rage and hatred.]

      God damn yo’ soul, I gits even wid you yit, sometime.

      [As if there were a shovel in his hands he goes through weary, mechanical gestures of digging up dirt, and throwing it to the roadside. Suddenly the guard approaches him angrily, threateningly. He raises his whip and lashes Jones viciously across the shoulders with it. Jones winces with pain and cowers abjectly. The guard turns his back on him and walks away contemptuously. Instantly Jones straightens up. With arms upraised as if his shovel were a club in his hands he springs murderously at the unsuspecting guard. In the act of crashing down his shovel on the white man’s skull, Jones suddenly becomes aware that his hands are empty. He cries despairingly.]

      Whar’s my shovel? Gimme my shovel ‘till I splits his damn head!

      [Appealing to his fellow convicts] Gimme a shovel, one o’ you, fo’ God’s sake!

      [They stand fixed in motionless attitudes, their eyes on the ground. The guard seems to wait expectantly, his back turned to the attacker. Jones bellows with baffled, terrified rage, tugging frantically at his revolver.]

      I kills you, you white debil, if it’s de last thing I evah does! Ghost or debil, I kill you agin!

      [He frees the revolver and fires point blank at the guard’s back. Instantly the walls of the forest close in from both sides; the road and the figures of the convict gang are blotted out in an enshrouding darkness. The only sounds are a crashing in the underbrush as Jones leaps away in mad flight and the throbbing of the tom-tom, still far distant, but increased in volume of sound and rapidity of beat.]

      Scene V

      A large circular clearing, enclosed by the serried ranks of gigantic trunks of tall trees whose tops are lost to view. In the center is a big dead stump—worn by time into a curious resemblance to an auction block. The moon floods the clearing with a clear light. Jones forces his way in through the forest on the left. He looks wildly about the clearing with hunted, fearful glances. His pants are in tatters, his shoes cut and misshapen, flapping about his feet. He slinks cautiously to the stump in the center and sits down in a tense position, ready for instant flight. Then he holds his head in his hands and rocks back and forth, moaning to himself miserably.

      JONES: Oh Lawd, Lawd! Oh Lawd, Lawd!

      [Suddenly he throws himself on his knees and raises his clasped hands to the sky—in a voice of agonized pleading.]

      Lawd Jesus, heah my prayer! I’se a po’ sinner, a po’ sinner! I knows I done wrong, I knows it! When I cotches Jeff cheatin’ wid loaded dice my anger overcomes me and I kills him dead! Lawd, I done wrong! When dat guard hits me wid de whip, my anger overcomes me, and I kills him dead. Lawd, I done wrong! And down heah whar dese fool bush niggers raises me up to the seat o’ de mighty, I steals all I could grab. Lawd, I done wrong! I knows it! I’se sorry! Forgive me, Lawd! Forgive dis po’ sinner! [Then beseeching terrifiedly] And keep dem away, Lawd! Keep dem away from me! And stop dat drum soundin’ in my ears! Dat begin to sound ha’nted, too.

      [He gets to his feet, evidently slightly reassured by his prayer—with attempted confidence.]

      De Lawd’ll preserve me from dem ha’nts after dis.

      [Sits down on the stump again]

      I ain’t skeered o’ real men. Let dem come. But dem odders

      [He shudders—then looks down at his feet, working his toes inside the shoe—with a groan.]

      Oh, my po’ feet! Dem shoes ain’t no use no more ‘ceptin’ to hurt. I’se better off widout dem.

      [He unlaces them and pulls them off—holds the wrecks of the shoes in his hands and regards them mournfully.]

      You was real, A-one patin’ leather, too. Look at you now. Emperor, you’se gittin’ mighty low!

      [He sighs dejectedly and remains with bowed shoulders, staring down at the shoes in his hands as if reluctant to throw them away. While his attention is thus occupied, a crowd of figures silently enter the clearing from all sides. All are dressed in Southern costumes of the period of the fifties of the last century. There are middle-aged who are evidently well-to-do planters. There is one spruce, authoritative individual—the auctioneer. There are a crowd of curious spectators, chiefly young belles and dandies who have come to the slave-market for diversion. All exchange courtly greetings in dumb show and chat silently together. There is something stiff, rigid, unreal, marionettish about their movements. They group themselves about the stump. Finally a batch of slaves are led in from the left by an attendant—three men of different ages, two women, one with a baby in her arms, nursing. They are placed to the left of the stump, beside Jones.]

      [The white planters look them over appraisingly as if they were cattle, and exchange judgments on each. The dandies point with their fingers and make witty remarks. The belles titter bewitchingly. All this in silence save for the ominous throb of the tom-tom. The auctioneer holds up his hand, taking his place at the stump. The groups strain forward attentively. He touches Jones on the shoulder peremptorily, motioning for him to stand on the stump—the auction block.]

      [Jones looks up, sees the figures on all sides, looks wildly for some opening to escape, sees none, screams and leaps madly to the top of the stump to get as far away from them as possible. He stands there, cowering, paralyzed with horror. THE AUCTIONEER begins his silent spiel. He points to Jones, appeals to the planters to see for themselves.]

      THE AUCTIONEER: Here is a good field hand, sound in wind and limb as they can see. Very strong still in spite of being middle-aged. Look at that back. Look at those shoulders. Look at the muscles in his arms and his sturdy legs. Capable of СКАЧАТЬ