‌Act Three‌

SCENE

The same. It is around half past six in the evening. Dusk is gathering in the living room, an early dusk due to the fog which has rolled in from the Sound and is like a white curtain drawn down outside the windows. From a lighthouse beyond the harbor’s mouth, a foghorn is heard at regular intervals, moaning like a mournful whale in labor, and from the harbor itself, intermittently, comes the warning ringing of bells on yachts at anchor.

The tray with the bottle of whiskey, glasses, and pitcher of ice water is on the table, as it was in the pre-luncheon scene of the previous act.

Mary and the second girl, Cathleen, are discovered. The latter is standing at left of table. She holds an empty whiskey glass in her hand as if she’d forgotten she had it. She shows the effects of drink. Her stupid, good- humored face wears a pleased and flattered 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 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 alone.

CATHLEEN

Sure, wouldn’t I rather ride in a fine automobile than stay here and listen to Bridget’s lies about her relations? It was like a vacation, Ma’am.

She pauses—then stupidly.

There was only one thing I didn’t like.

MARY

Vaguely.

What was that, Cathleen?

CATHLEEN

The way the man in the drugstore acted when I took in the prescription for you.

Indignantly.

The impidence of him!

MARY

With stubborn blankness.

What are you talking about? What drugstore? What prescription?

Then hastily, as Cathleen stares in stupid amazement.

Oh, of course, I’d forgotten. The medicine for the rheumatism in my hands. What did the man say?

Then with indifference.

Not that it matters, as long as he filled the prescription.

CATHLEEN

It mattered to me, then! I’m not used to being treated like a thief. He gave me a long look and says insultingly, “Where did you get hold of this?” and I says, “It’s none of your damned business, but if you must know, it’s for the lady I work for, Mrs. Tyrone, who’s sitting out in the automobile.” That shut him up quick. He gave a look out at you and said, “Oh,” and went to get the medicine.

MARY

Vaguely.

Yes, he knows me.

She sits in the armchair at right rear of table. She adds in a calm, detached voice.

It’s a special kind of medicine. I have to take it because there is no other that can stop the pain—all the pain—I mean, in my hands.

She raises her hands and regards them with melancholy sympathy. There is no tremor in them now.

Poor hands! You’d never believe it, but they were once one of my good points, along with my hair and eyes, and I had a fine figure, too.

Her tone has become more and more far-off and dreamy.

They were a musician’s hands. I used to love the piano. I worked so hard at my music in the Convent—if you can call it work when you do something you love. Mother Elizabeth and my music teacher both said I had more talent than any student they remembered. My father paid for special lessons. He spoiled me. He would do anything I asked. He would have sent me to Europe to study after I graduated from the Convent. I might have gone—if I hadn’t fallen in love with Mr. Tyrone. Or I might have become a nun. I had two dreams. To be a nun, that was the more beautiful one. To become a concert pianist, that was the other.

She pauses, regarding her hands fixedly. Cathleen blinks her eyes to fight off drowsiness and a tipsy feeling.

I haven’t touched a piano in so many years. I couldn’t play with such crippled fingers, even if I wanted to. For a time after my marriage I tried to keep up my music. But it was hopeless. One-night stands, cheap hotels, dirty trains, leaving children, never having a home—

She stares at her hands with fascinated disgust.

See, Cathleen, how ugly they are! So maimed and crippled! You would think they’d been through some horrible accident!

She gives a strange little laugh.

So they have, come to think of it.

She suddenly thrusts her hands behind her back.

I won’t look at them. They’re worse than the foghorn for reminding me—

Then with defiant self-assurance.

But even they can’t touch me now.

She brings her hands from behind her back and deliberately stares at them

—calmly.

They’re far away. I see them, but the pain has gone.

CATHLEEN

Stupidly puzzled.

You’ve taken some of the medicine? It made you act funny, Ma’am. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d a drop taken.

MARY

Dreamily.

It kills the pain. You go back until at last you are beyond its reach. Only the past when you were happy is real.

She pauses—then as if her words had been an evocation which called back happiness she changes in her whole manner and facial expression. She looks younger. There is a quality of an innocent convent girl about her, and she smiles shyly.

If you think Mr. Tyrone is handsome now, Cathleen, you should have seen him when I first met him. He had the reputation of being one of the best looking men in the country. The girls in the Convent who had seen him act, or seen his photographs, used to rave about him. He was a great matinee idol then, you know. Women used to wait at the stage door just to see him come out. You can imagine how excited I was when my father wrote me he and James Tyrone had become friends, and that I was to meet him when I came home for Easter vacation. I showed the letter to all the girls, and how envious they were! My father took me to see him act first. It was a play about the French Revolution and the leading part was a nobleman. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I wept when he was thrown in prison—and then was so mad at myself because I was afraid my eyes and nose would be red. My father had said we’d go backstage to his dressing room right after the play, and so we did.

She gives a little excited, shy laugh.

I was so bashful all I could do was stammer and blush like a little fool. But he didn’t seem to think I was a fool. I know he liked me the first moment we were introduced.

Coquettishly.

I guess my eyes and nose couldn’t have been red, after all. I was really very pretty then, Cathleen. And he was handsomer than my wildest dream, in his make-up and his nobleman’s costume that was so becoming to him. He was different from all ordinary men, like someone from another world. At the same time he was simple, and kind, and unassuming, not a bit stuck-up or vain. I fell in love right then. So did he, he told me afterwards. I forgot all about becoming a nun or a concert pianist. All I wanted was to be his wife. She pauses, staring before her with unnaturally bright, dreamy eyes, and a rapt, tender, girlish smile.

Thirty-six years ago, but I can see it as clearly as if it were tonight! We’ve loved each other ever since. And in all those thirty-six years, there has never been a breath of scandal about him. I mean, with any other woman. Never since he met me. That has made me very happy, Cathleen. It has made me forgive so many other things.

CATHLEEN

Fighting tipsy drowsiness—sentimentally.

He’s a fine gentleman and you’re a lucky woman.

Then, fidgeting.

Can I take the drink to Bridget, Ma’am? It must be near dinnertime and I ought to be in the kitchen helping her. If she don’t get something to quiet her temper, she’ll be after me with the cleaver.

MARY

With a vague exasperation at being brought back from her dream.

Yes, yes, go. I don’t need you now.

CATHLEEN

With relief.

Thank you, Ma’am.

She pours out a big drink and starts for the back parlor with it.

You won’t be alone long. The Master and the boys—

MARY

Impatiently.

No, no, they won’t come. Tell Bridget I won’t wait. You can serve dinner promptly at half past six. I’m not hungry but I’ll sit at the table and we’ll get it over with.

CATHLEEN

You ought to eat something, Ma’am. It’s a queer medicine if it takes away your appetite.

MARY

Has begun to drift into dreams again—reacts mechanically.

What medicine? I don’t know what you mean.

In dismissal.

You better take the drink to Bridget.

CATHLEEN

Yes, Ma’am.

She disappears through the back parlor. Mary waits until she hears the pantry door close behind her. Then she settles back in relaxed dreaminess, staring fixedly at nothing. Her arms rest limply along the arms of the chair, her hands with long, warped, swollen-knuckled, sensitive fingers drooping in complete calm. It is growing dark in the room. There is a pause of dead quiet. Then from the world outside comes the melancholy moan of the foghorn, followed by a chorus of bells, muffled by the fog, from the anchored craft in the harbor. Mary’s face gives no sign she has heard, but her hands jerk and the fingers automatically play for a moment on the air. She frowns and shakes her head mechanically as if a fly had walked across

her mind. She suddenly loses all the girlish quality and is an aging, cynically sad, embittered woman.

MARY

Bitterly.

You’re a sentimental fool. What is so wonderful about that first meeting between a silly romantic schoolgirl and a matinee idol? You were much happier before you knew he existed, in the Convent when you used to pray to the Blessed Virgin.

Longingly.

If I could only find the faith I lost, so I could pray again!

She pauses—then begins to recite the Hail Mary in a flat, empty tone.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace! The Lord is with Thee; blessed art Thou among women.”

Sneeringly.

You expect the Blessed Virgin to be fooled by a lying dope fiend reciting words! You can’t hide from her!

She springs to her feet. Her hands fly up to pat her hair distractedly.

I must go upstairs. I haven’t taken enough. When you start again you never know exactly how much you need.

She goes toward the front parlor—then stops in the doorway as she hears the sound of voices from the front path. She starts guiltily.

That must be them—

She hurries back to sit down. Her face sets in stubborn defensiveness— resentfully.

Why are they coming back? They don’t want to. And I’d much rather be alone.

Suddenly her whole manner changes. She becomes pathetically relieved and eager.

Oh, I’m so glad they’ve come! I’ve been so horribly lonely!

The front door is heard closing and Tyrone calls uneasily from the hall.

TYRONE

Are you there, Mary?

The light in the hall is turned on and shines through the front parlor to fall on Mary.

MARY

Rises from her chair, her face lighting up lovingly—with excited eagerness.

I’m here, dear. In the living room. I’ve been waiting for you.

Tyrone comes in through the front parlor. Edmund is behind him. Tyrone has had a lot to drink but beyond a slightly glazed look in his eyes and a trace of blur in his speech, he does not show it. Edmund has also had more than a few drinks without much apparent effect, except that his sunken cheeks are flushed and his eyes look bright and feverish. They stop in the doorway to stare appraisingly at her. What they see fulfills their worst expectations. But for the moment Mary is unconscious of their condemning eyes. She kisses her husband and then Edmund. Her manner is unnaturally effusive. They submit shrinkingly. She talks excitedly.

I’m so happy you’ve come. I had given up hope. I was afraid you wouldn’t come home. It’s such a dismal, foggy evening. It must be much more cheerful in the barrooms uptown, where there are people you can talk and joke with. No, don’t deny it. I know how you feel. I don’t blame you a bit. I’m all the more grateful to you for coming home. I was sitting here so lonely and blue. Come and sit down.

She sits at left rear of table, Edmund at left of table, and Tyrone in the rocker at right of it.

Dinner won’t be ready for a minute. You’re actually a little early. Will wonders never cease. Here’s the whiskey, dear. Shall I pour a drink for you? Without waiting for a reply she does so.

And you, Edmund? I don’t want to encourage you, but one before dinner, as an appetizer, can’t do any harm.

She pours a drink for him. They make no move to take the drinks. She talks on as if unaware of their silence.

Where’s Jamie? But, of course, he’ll never come home so long as he has the price of a drink left.

She reaches out and clasps her husband’s hand—sadly. I’m afraid Jamie has been lost to us for a long time, dear. Her face hardens.

But we mustn’t allow him to drag Edmund down with him, as he’d like to do. He’s jealous because Edmund has always been the baby—just as he used to be of Eugene. He’ll never be content until he makes Edmund as hopeless a failure as he is.

EDMUND

Miserably.

Stop talking, Mama.

TYRONE

Dully.

Yes, Mary, the less you say now—

Then to Edmund, a bit tipsily.

All the same there’s truth in your mother’s warning. Beware of that brother of yours, or he’ll poison life for you with his damned sneering serpent’s tongue!

EDMUND

As before.

Oh, cut it out, Papa.

MARY

Goes on as if nothing had been said.

It’s hard to believe, seeing Jamie as he is now, that he was ever my baby. Do you remember what a healthy, happy baby he was, James? The one- night stands and filthy trains and cheap hotels and bad food never made him cross or sick. He was always smiling or laughing. He hardly ever cried. Eugene was the same, too, happy and healthy, during the two years he lived before I let him die through my neglect.

TYRONE

Oh, for the love of God! I’m a fool for coming home!

EDMUND

Papa! Shut up!

MARY

Smiles with detached tenderness at Edmund.

It was Edmund who was the crosspatch when he was little, always getting upset and frightened about nothing at all.

She pats his hand—teasingly.

Everyone used to say, dear, you’d cry at the drop of a hat.

EDMUND

Cannot control his bitterness.

Maybe I guessed there was a good reason not to laugh.

TYRONE

Reproving and pitying.

Now, now, lad. You know better than to pay attention—

MARY

As if she hadn’t heard—sadly again.

Who would have thought Jamie would grow up to disgrace us. You remember, James, for years after he went to boarding school, we received such glowing reports. Everyone liked him. All his teachers told us what a fine brain he had, and how easily he learned his lessons. Even after he began to drink and they had to expel him, they wrote us how sorry they were, because he was so likable and such a brilliant student. They predicted a wonderful future for him if he would only learn to take life seriously.

She pauses—then adds with a strange, sad detachment.

It’s such a pity. Poor Jamie! It’s hard to understand—

Abruptly a change comes over her. Her face hardens and she stares at her husband with accusing hostility.

No, it isn’t at all. You brought him up to be a boozer. Since he first opened his eyes, he’s seen you drinking. Always a bottle on the bureau in the cheap hotel rooms! And if he had a nightmare when he was little, or a stomach- ache, your remedy was to give him a tea-spoonful of whiskey to quiet him.

TYRONE

Stung.

So I’m to blame because that lazy hulk has made a drunken loafer of himself? Is that what I came home to listen to? I might have known! When you have the poison in you, you want to blame everyone but yourself!

EDMUND

Papa! You told me not to pay attention.

Then, resentfully.

Anyway it’s true. You did the same thing with me. I can remember that teaspoonful of booze every time I woke up with a nightmare.

MARY

In a detached reminiscent tone.

Yes, you were continually having nightmares as a child. You were born afraid. Because I was so afraid to bring you into the world.

She pauses—then goes on with the same detachment.

Please don’t think I blame your father, Edmund. He didn’t know any better. He never went to school after he was ten. His people were the most ignorant kind of poverty-stricken Irish. I’m sure they honestly believed whiskey is the healthiest medicine for a child who is sick or frightened.

Tyrone is about to burst out in angry defense of his family but Edmund intervenes.

EDMUND

Sharply.

Papa!

Changing the subject.

Are we going to have this drink, or aren’t we?

TYRONE

Controlling himself—dully.

You’re right. I’m a fool to take notice.

He picks up his glass listlessly.

Drink hearty, lad.

Edmund drinks but Tyrone remains staring at the glass in his hand. Edmund at once realizes how much the whiskey has been watered. He frowns, glancing from the bottle to his mother—starts to say something but stops.

MARY

In a changed tone—repentently.

I’m sorry if I sounded bitter, James. I’m not. It’s all so far away. But I did feel a little hurt when you wished you hadn’t come home. I was so relieved and happy when you came, and grateful to you. It’s very dreary and sad to be here alone in the fog with night falling.

TYRONE

Moved.

I’m glad I came, Mary, when you act like your real self.

MARY

I was so lonesome I kept Cathleen with me just to have someone to talk to.

Her manner and quality drift back to the shy convent girl again.

Do you know what I was telling her, dear? About the night my father took me to your dressing room and I first fell in love with you. Do you remember?

TYRONE

Deeply moved—his voice husky.

Can you think I’d ever forget, Mary?

Edmund looks away from them, sad and embarrassed.

MARY

Tenderly.

No. I know you still love me, James, in spite of everything.

TYRONE

His face works and he blinks back tears—with quiet intensity.

Yes! As God is my judge! Always and forever, Mary!

MARY

And I love you, dear, in spite of everything.

There is a pause in which Edmund moves embarrassedly. The strange detachment comes over her manner again as if she were speaking impersonally of people seen from a distance.

But I must confess, James, although I couldn’t help loving you, I would never have married you if I’d known you drank so much. I remember the first night your barroom friends had to help you up to the door of our hotel room, and knocked and then ran away before I came to the door. We were still on our honeymoon, do you remember?

TYRONE

With guilty vehemence.

I don’t remember! It wasn’t on our honeymoon! And I never in my life had to be helped to bed, or missed a performance!

MARY

As though he hadn’t spoken.

I had waited in that ugly hotel room hour after hour. I kept making excuses for you. I told myself it must be some business connected with the theater. I knew so little about the theater. Then I became terrified. I imagined all sorts of horrible accidents. I got on my knees and prayed that nothing had happened to you—and then they brought you up and left you outside the door.

She gives a little, sad sigh.

I didn’t know how often that was to happen in the years to come, how many times I was to wait in ugly hotel rooms. I became quite used to it.

EDMUND

Bursts out with a look of accusing hate at his father.

Christ! No wonder— !

He controls himself—gruffly.

When is dinner, Mama? It must be time.

TYRONE

Overwhelmed by shame which he tries to hide, fumbles with his watch.

Yes. It must be. Let’s see.

He stares at his watch without seeing it. Pleadingly.

Mary! Can’t you forget—?

MARY

With detached pity.

No, dear. But I forgive. I always forgive you. So don’t look so guilty. I’m sorry I remembered out loud. I don’t want to be sad, or to make you sad. I want to remember only the happy part of the past.

Her manner drifts back to the shy, gay convent girl.

Do you remember our wedding, dear? I’m sure you’ve completely forgotten what my wedding gown looked like. Men don’t notice such things. They don’t think they’re important. But it was important to me, I can tell you! How I fussed and worried! I was so excited and happy! My father told me

to buy anything I wanted and never mind what it cost. The best is none too good, he said. I’m afraid he spoiled me dreadfully. My mother didn’t. She was very pious and strict. I think she was a little jealous. She didn’t approve of my marrying—especially an actor. I think she hoped I would become a nun. She used to scold my father. She’d grumble, “You never tell me, never mind what it costs, when I buy anything! You’ve spoiled that girl so, I pity her husband if she ever marries. She’ll expect him to give her the moon. She’ll never make a good wife.”

She laughs affectionately.

Poor mother!

She smiles at Tyrone with a strange, incongruous coquetry.

But she was mistaken, wasn’t she, James? I haven’t been such a bad wife, have I?

TYRONE

Huskily, trying to force a smile.

I’m not complaining, Mary.

MARY

A shadow of vague guilt crosses her face.

At least, I’ve loved you dearly, and done the best I could—under the circumstances.

The shadow vanishes and her shy, girlish expression returns.

That wedding gown was nearly the death of me and the dressmaker, too!

She laughs.

I was so particular. It was never quite good enough. At last she said she refused to touch it any more or she might spoil it, and I made her leave so I could be alone to examine myself in the mirror. I was so pleased and vain. I thought to myself, “Even if your nose and mouth and ears are a trifle too large, your eyes and hair and figure, and your hands, make up for it. You’re just as pretty as any actress he’s ever met, and you don’t have to use paint.” She pauses, wrinkling her brow in an effort of memory.

Where is my wedding gown now, I wonder? I kept it wrapped up in tissue paper in my trunk. I used to hope I would have a daughter and when it came

time for her to marry— She couldn’t have bought a lovelier gown, and I knew, James, you’d never tell her, never mind the cost. You’d want her to pick up something at a bargain. It was made of soft, shimmering satin, trimmed with wonderful old duchesse lace, in tiny ruffles around the neck and sleeves, and worked in with the folds that were draped round in a bustle effect at the back. The basque was boned and very tight. I remember I held my breath when it was fitted, so my waist would be as small as possible. My father even let me have duchesse lace on my white satin slippers, and lace with the orange blossoms in my veil. Oh, how I loved that gown! It was so beautiful! Where is it now, I wonder? I used to take it out from time to time when I was lonely, but it always made me cry, so finally a long while ago —

She wrinkles her forehead again.

I wonder where I hid it? Probably in one of the old trunks in the attic. Some day I’ll have to look.

She stops, staring before her. Tyrone sighs, shaking his head hopelessly, and attempts to catch his son’s eye, looking for sympathy, but Edmund is staring at the floor.

TYRONE

Forces a casual tone.

Isn’t it dinner time, dear?

With a feeble attempt at teasing.

You’re forever scolding me for being late, but now I’m on time for once, it’s dinner that’s late.

She doesn’t appear to hear him. He adds, still pleasantly.

Well, if I can’t eat yet, I can drink. I’d forgotten I had this.

He drinks his drink. Edmund watches him. Tyrone scowls and looks at his wife with sharp suspicion—roughly.

Who’s been tampering with my whiskey? The damned stuff is half water! Jamie’s been away and he wouldn’t overdo his trick like this, anyway. Any fool could tell—Mary, answer me!

With angry disgust.

I hope to God you haven’t taken to drink on top of—

EDMUND

Shut up, Papa!

To his mother, without looking at her.

You treated Cathleen and Bridget, isn’t that it, Mama?

MARY

With indifferent casualness.

Yes, of course. They work hard for poor wages. And I’m the housekeeper, I have to keep them from leaving. Besides, I wanted to treat Cathleen because I had her drive uptown with me, and sent her to get my prescription filled.

EDMUND

For God’s sake, Mama! You can’t trust her! Do you want everyone on earth to know?

MARY

Her face hardening stubbornly.

Know what? That I suffer from rheumatism in my hands and have to take medicine to kill the pain? Why should I be ashamed of that?

Turns on Edmund with a hard, accusing antagonism—almost a revengeful enmity.

I never knew what rheumatism was before you were born! Ask your father!

Edmund looks away, shrinking into himself.

TYRONE

Don’t mind her, lad. It doesn’t mean anything. When she gets to the stage where she gives the old crazy excuse about her hands she’s gone far away from us.

MARY

Turns on him—with a strangely triumphant, taunting smile.

I’m glad you realize that, James! Now perhaps you’ll give up trying to remind me, you and Edmund!

Abruptly, in a detached, matter-of-fact tone.

Why don’t you light the light, James? It’s getting dark. I know you hate to, but Edmund has proved to you that one bulb burning doesn’t cost much. There’s no sense letting your fear of the poor-house make you too stingy.

TYRONE

Reacts mechanically.

I never claimed one bulb cost much! It’s having them on, one here and one there, that makes the Electric Light Company rich.

He gets up and turns on the reading lamp—roughly.

But I’m a fool to talk reason to you.

To Edmund.

I’ll get a fresh bottle of whiskey, lad, and we’ll have a real drink.

He goes through the back parlor.

MARY

With detached amusement.

He’ll sneak around to the outside cellar door so the servants won’t see him. He’s really ashamed of keeping his whiskey padlocked in the cellar. Your father is a strange man, Edmund. It took many years before I understood him. You must try to understand and forgive him, too, and not feel contempt because he’s close-fisted. His father deserted his mother and their six children a year or so after they came to America. He told them he had a premonition he would die soon, and he was homesick for Ireland, and wanted to go back there to die. So he went and he did die. He must have been a peculiar man, too. Your father had to go to work in a machine shop when he was only ten years old.

EDMUND

Protests dully.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mama. I’ve heard Papa tell that machine shop story ten thousand times.

MARY

Yes, dear, you’ve had to listen, but I don’t think you’ve ever tried to understand.

EDMUND

Ignoring this—miserably.

Listen, Mama! You’re not so far gone yet you’ve forgotten everything. You haven’t asked me what I found out this afternoon. Don’t you care a damn?

MARY

Shakenly.

Don’t say that! You hurt me, dear!

EDMUND

What I’ve got is serious, Mama. Doc Hardy knows for sure now.

MARY

Stiffens into scornful defensive stubbornness.

That lying old quack! I warned you he’d invent— !

EDMUND

Miserably dogged.

He called in a specialist to examine me, so he’d be absolutely sure.

MARY

Ignoring this.

Don’t tell me about Hardy! If you heard what the doctor at the sanatorium, who really knows something, said about how he’d treated me! He said he ought to be locked up! He said it was a wonder I hadn’t gone mad! I told him I had once, that time I ran down in my nightdress to throw myself off the dock. You remember that, don’t you? And yet you want me to pay attention to what Doctor Hardy says. Oh, no!

EDMUND

Bitterly.

I remember, all right. It was right after that Papa and Jamie decided they couldn’t hide it from me any more. Jamie told me. I called him a liar! I tried to punch him in the nose. But I knew he wasn’t lying.

His voice trembles, his eyes begin to fill with tears.

God, it made everything in life seem rotten!

MARY

Pitiably.

Oh, don’t. My baby! You hurt me so dreadfully!

EDMUND

Dully.

I’m sorry, Mama. It was you who brought it up.

Then with a bitter, stubborn persistence.

Listen, Mama. I’m going to tell you whether you want to hear or not. I’ve got to go to a sanatorium.

MARY

Dazedly, as if this was something that had never occurred to her.

Go away?

Violently.

No! I won’t have it! How dare Doctor Hardy advise such a thing without consulting me! How dare your father allow him! What right has he? You are

my baby! Let him attend to Jamie!

More and more excited and bitter.

I know why he wants you sent to a sanatorium. To take you from me! He’s always tried to do that. He’s been jealous of every one of my babies! He kept finding ways to make me leave them. That’s what caused Eugene’s death. He’s been jealous of you most of all. He knew I loved you most because—

EDMUND

Miserably.

Oh, stop talking crazy, can’t you, Mama! Stop trying to blame him. And why are you so against my going away now? I’ve been away a lot, and I’ve never noticed it broke your heart!

MARY

Bitterly.

I’m afraid you’re not very sensitive, after all.

Sadly.

You might have guessed, dear, that after I knew you knew—about me—I had to be glad whenever you were where you couldn’t see me.

EDMUND

Brokenly.

Mama! Don’t!

He reaches out blindly and takes her hand—but he drops it immediately, overcome by bitterness again.

All this talk about loving me—and you won’t even listen when I try to tell you how sick—

MARY

With an abrupt transformation into a detached bullying motherliness.

Now, now. That’s enough! I don’t care to hear because I know it’s nothing but Hardy’s ignorant lies.

He shrinks back into himself. She keeps on in a forced, teasing tone but with an increasing undercurrent of resentment.

You’re so like your father, dear. You love to make a scene out of nothing so you can be dramatic and tragic.

With a belittling laugh.

If I gave you the slightest encouragement, you’d tell me next you were going to die—

EDMUND

People do die of it. Your own father—

MARY

Sharply.

Why do you mention him? There’s no comparison at all with you. He had consumption.

Angrily.

I hate you when you become gloomy and morbid! I forbid you to remind me of my father’s death, do you hear me?

EDMUND

His face hard—grimly.

Yes, I hear you, Mama. I wish to God I didn’t!

He gets up from his chair and stands staring condemningly at her— bitterly.

It’s pretty hard to take at times, having a dope fiend for a mother!

She winces—all life seeming to drain from her face, leaving it with the appearance of a plaster cast. Instantly Edmund wishes he could take back what he has said. He stammers miserably.

Forgive me, Mama. I was angry. You hurt me.

There is a pause in which the foghorn and the ships’ bells are heard.

MARY

Goes slowly to the windows at right like an automaton—looking out, a blank, far-off quality in her voice.

Just listen to that awful foghorn. And the bells. Why is it fog makes everything sound so sad and lost, I wonder?

EDMUND

Brokenly.

I—I can’t stay here. I don’t want any dinner.

He hurries away through the front parlor. She keeps staring out the window until she hears the front door close behind him. Then she comes back and sits in her chair, the same blank look on her face.

MARY

Vaguely.

I must go upstairs. I haven’t taken enough.

She pauses—then longingly.

I hope, sometime, without meaning it, I will take an overdose. I never could do it deliberately. The Blessed Virgin would never forgive me, then.

She hears Tyrone returning and turns as he comes in, through the back parlor, with a bottle of whiskey he has just uncorked. He is fuming.

TYRONE

Wrathfully.

The padlock is all scratched. That drunken loafer has tried to pick the lock with a piece of wire, the way he’s done before.

With satisfaction, as if this was a perpetual battle of wits with his elder son. But I’ve fooled him this time. It’s a special padlock a professional burglar couldn’t pick.

He puts the bottle on the tray and suddenly is aware of Edmund’s absence.

Where’s Edmund?

MARY

With a vague far-away air.

He went out. Perhaps he’s going uptown again to find Jamie. He still has some money left, I suppose, and it’s burning a hole in his pocket. He said he didn’t want any dinner. He doesn’t seem to have any appetite these days.

Then stubbornly.

But it’s just a summer cold.

Tyrone stares at her and shakes his head helplessly and pours himself a big drink and drinks it. Suddenly it is too much for her and she breaks out and sobs.

Oh, James, I’m so frightened!

She gets up and throws her arms around him and hides her face on his shoulder—sobbingly.

I know he’s going to die!

TYRONE

Don’t say that! It’s not true! They promised me in six months he’d be cured.

MARY

You don’t believe that! I can tell when you’re acting! And it will be my fault. I should never have borne him. It would have been better for his sake. I could never hurt him then. He wouldn’t have had to know his mother was a dope fiend—and hate her!

TYRONE

His voice quivering.

Hush, Mary, for the love of God! He loves you. He knows it was a curse put on you without your knowing or willing it. He’s proud you’re his mother!

Abruptly as he hears the pantry door opening.

Hush, now! Here comes Cathleen. You don’t want her to see you crying.

She turns quickly away from him to the windows at right, hastily wiping her eyes. A moment later Cathleen appears in the back-parlor doorway. She is

uncertain in her walk and grinning woozily.

CATHLEEN

Starts guiltily when she sees Tyrone—with dignity.

Dinner is served, Sir.

Raising her voice unnecessarily.

Dinner is served, Ma’am.

She forgets her dignity and addresses Tyrone with good-natured familiarity. So you’re here, are you? Well, well. Won’t Bridget be in a rage! I told her the Madame said you wouldn’t be home.

Then reading accusation in his eye.

Don’t be looking at me that way. If I’ve a drop taken, I didn’t steal it. I was invited.

She turns with huffy dignity and disappears through the back parlor.

TYRONE

Sighs—then summoning his actor’s heartiness.

Come along, dear. Let’s have our dinner. I’m hungry as a hunter.

MARY

Comes to him—her face is composed in plaster again and her tone is remote.

I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, James. I couldn’t possibly eat anything. My hands pain me dreadfully. I think the best thing for me is to go to bed and rest. Good night, dear.

She kisses him mechanically and turns toward the front parlor.

TYRONE

Harshly.

Up to take more of that God-damned poison, is that it? You’ll be like a mad ghost before the night’s over!

MARY

Starts to walk away—blankly.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, James. You say such mean, bitter things when you’ve drunk too much. You’re as bad as Jamie or Edmund.

She moves off through the front parlor. He stands a second as if not knowing what to do. He is a sad, bewildered, broken old man. He walks wearily off through the back parlor toward the dining room.

CURTAIN