Experimental O'Neill. Eugene O'Neill
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the clearing from left, rear, and winding away from it again toward the right. As the scene opens nothing can be distinctly made out. Except for the beating of the tom-tom, which is a trifle louder and quicker than in the previous scene, there is silence, broken every few seconds by a queer, clicking sound. Then gradually the figure of the negro, Jeff, can be discerned crouching on his haunches at the rear of the triangle. He is middle-aged, thin, brown in color, is dressed in a Pullman porter’s uniform, cap, etc. He is throwing a pair of dice on the ground before him, picking them up, shaking them, casting them out with the regular, rigid, mechanical movements of an automaton. The heavy, plodding footsteps of someone approaching along the trail from the left are heard and Jones’ voice, pitched in a slightly higher key and strained in a cheering effort to overcome its own tremors.
JONES: De moon’s rizen. Does you heah dat, nigger? You gits more light from dis out. No mo’ buttin’ yo’ fool head agin’ de trunks an’ scratchin’ de hide off yo’ legs in de bushes. Now you sees whar yo’se gwine. So cheer up! From now on you has a snap.
[He steps just to the rear of the triangular clearing and mops off his face on his sleeve. He has lost his Panama hat. His face is scratched, his brilliant uniform shows several large rents.]
what time’s it gittin’ to be, I wonder? I dassent light no match to find out. Phoo’. It’s wa’m an’ dat’s a fac’!
[Wearily] How long r been makin’ tracks in dese woods? Must be hours an’ hours. Seems like fo’evah! Yit can’t be, when de moon’s jes’ riz. Dis am a long night fo’ yo’, yo’ Majesty! [With a mournful chuckle] Majesty! Der ain’t much majesty ‘bout dis baby now. [With attempted cheerfulness] Never min’. It’s all part o’ de game. Dis night come to an end like everything else. And when you gits dar safe and has dat bankroll in yo’ hands you laughs at all dis.
[He starts to whistle but checks himself abruptly.]
What yo’ whistlin’ for, you po’ dope! Want all de won’ to heah you?
[He stops talking to listen.]
Heah dat ole drum! Sho’ gits nearer from de sound. Dey’re packin’ it along wid ‘em. Time fo’ me to move.
[He takes a step forward, then stops—worriedly.]
What’s dat odder queer clicketty sound I heah? Den it is! Sound close! Sound like—sound like—Fo’ God sake, sound like some nigger was shootin’ crap!
[Frightenedly] I better beat it quick when I gits dem notions.
[He walks quickly into the clear space—then stands transfixed as he sees Jeff in a terrified gasp.]
Who dar? Who dat? Is dat you, Jeff?
[starting toward the other, forgetful for a moment of his surroundings and really believing it is a living man that he sees—in a tone of happy relief]
Jeff! I’se sho’ mighty glad to see you! Dey tol’ me you done died from dat razor cut I gives you.
[Stopping suddenly, bewilderedly]
But how you come to be heah, nigger?
[He stares fascinatedly at the other who continues his mechanical play with the dice. Jones’ eyes begin to roll wildly. He stutters.]
Ain’t you gwine—look up—can’t you speak to me? Is you—is you—a ha’nt?
[He jerks out his revolver in a frenzy of terrified rage.]
Nigger, I kills you dead once. Has I got to kill you agin? You take it den.
[He fires. When the smoke clears away Jeff has disappeared. Jones stands trembling—then with a certain reassurance.]
He’s gone, anyway. Ha’nt or no ha’nt, dat shot fix him.
[The beat of the far-off tom-tom is perceptibly louder and more rapid. Jones becomes conscious of it—with a start, looking back over his shoulder.]
Dey’s gittin’ near! Dey’se comin’ fast! And heah I is shootin’ shots to let ‘em know jes’ whar I is. Oh, Gorry, I’se got to run.
[Forgetting the path he plunges wildly into the underbrush in the rear and disappears in the shadow.]
Scene IV
In the forest. A wide dirt road runs diagonally from right, front, to left, rear. Rising sheer on both sides the forest walls it in. The moon is now up. Under its light the road glimmers ghastly and unreal. It is as if the forest had stood aside momentarily to let the road pass through and accomplish its veiled purpose. This done, the forest will fold in upon itself again and the road will be no more. Jones stumbles in from the forest on the right. His uniform is ragged and torn. He looks about him with numbed surprise when he sees the road, his eyes blinking in the bright moonlight. He flops down exhaustedly and pants heavily for a while. Then with sudden anger.
JONES: I’m meltin’ wid heat! Runnin’ an’ runnin’ an’ runnin’! Damn dis heah coat! Like a strait jacket!
[He tears off his coat and flings it away from him, revealing himself stripped to the waist.]
Den! Dat’s better! Now I kin breathe!
[Looking down at his feet, the spurs catch his eye.]
And to hell wid dese high-fangled spurs. Dey’re what’s been a-trippin’ me up an’ breakin’ my neck.
[He unstraps them and flings them away disgustedly.]
Dere! I gits rid o’ dem frippety Emperor trappin’s an’ I travels lighter. Lawd! I’se tired!
[After a pause, listening to the insistent beat of the tom-tom in the distance]
I must ‘a put some distance between myself an’ dem—runnin’ like dat—and yit—dat damn drum sound jes’ de same—nearer, even. Well, I guess I a’most holds my lead anyhow. Dey won’t never catch up.
[With a sigh] If on’y my fool legs stands up. Oh, I’se sorry I evah went in for dis. Dat Emperor job is sho’ hard to shake.
[He looks around him suspiciously.]
How’d dis road evah git heah? Good level road, too. I never remembers seein’ it befo’.
[Shaking his head apprehensively]
Dese woods is sho’ full o’ de queerest things at night.
[With a sudden terror] Lawd God, don’t let me see no more o’ dem ha’nts! Dey gits my goat!
[Then trying to talk himself into confidence]
Ha’nts! You fool nigger, dey ain’t no such things! Don’t de Baptist parson tell you dat many time? Is you civilized, or is you like dese ign’rent black niggers heah? Sho’! Dat was all in yo’ own head. Wasn’t nothin’ dere. Wasn’t no Jeff! Know what? You jus’ get seem’ dem things ‘cause yo’ belly’s empty 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