SparkNotes: Complete Text of The Hairy Ape: Scene I

READ STUDY GUIDE: Scene One

Scene I

The firemen's forecastle of a transatlantic liner an hour

after sailing from New York for the voyage across. Tiers of

narrow, steel bunks, three deep, on all sides. An entrance in

rear. Benches on the floor before the bunks. The room is crowded

with men, shouting, cursing, laughing, singing—a confused,

inchoate uproar swelling into a sort of unity, a meaning—the

bewildered, furious, baffled defiance of a beast in a cage. Nearly

all the men are drunk. Many bottles are passed from hand to hand.

All are dressed in dungaree pants, heavy ugly shoes. Some wear

singlets, but the majority are stripped to the waist.

The treatment of this scene, or of any other scene in the play,

should by no means be naturalistic. The effect sought after is a

cramped space in the bowels of a ship, imprisoned by white steel.

The lines of bunks, the uprights supporting them, cross each other

like the steel framework of a cage. The ceiling crushes down upon

the men's heads. They cannot stand upright. This accentuates the

natural stooping posture which shovelling coal and the resultant

over-development of back and shoulder muscles have given them. The

men themselves should resemble those pictures in which the

appearance of Neanderthal Man is guessed at. All are hairy-

chested, with long arms of tremendous power, and low, receding

brows above their small, fierce, resentful eyes. All the civilized

white races are represented, but except for the slight

differentiation in color of hair, skin, eyes, all these men are

alike.

The curtain rises on a tumult of sound. YANK is seated in the

foreground. He seems broader, fiercer, more truculent, more

powerful, more sure of himself than the rest. They respect his

superior strength—the grudging respect of fear. Then, too, he

represents to them a self-expression, the very last word in what

they are, their most highly developed individual.

VOICES:

—Gif me trink dere, you!

'Ave a wet!

Salute!

Gesundheit!

Skoal!

Drunk as a lord, God stiffen you!

Here's how!

Luck!

Pass back that bottle, damn you!

Pourin' it down his neck!

Ho, Froggy! Where the devil have you been?

La Touraine.

I hit him smash in yaw, py Gott!

Jenkins—the First—he's a rotten swine—

And the coppers nabbed him—and I run—

I like peer better. It don't pig head gif you.

A slut, I'm sayin'! She robbed me aslape—

To hell with 'em all!

You're a bloody liar!

Say dot again!

[Commotion. Two men about to fight are pulled apart.]

No scrappin' now!

To-night—

See who's the best man!

Bloody Dutchman!

To-night on the for'ard square.

I'll bet on Dutchy.

He packa da wallop, I tella you!

Shut up, Wop!

No fightin', maties. We're all chums, ain't we?

[A voice starts bawling a song.]

"Beer, beer, glorious beer!

Fill yourselves right up to here."

YANK:

—[For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproarabout him, turns around threateningly—in a tone of contemptuousauthority.]"Choke off dat noise! Where d'yuh get dat beer stuff?

Beer, hell! Beer's for goils—and Dutchmen. Me for somep'n wit a

kick to it! Gimme a drink, one of youse guys.[Several bottles areeagerly offered. He takes a tremendous gulp at one of them; then,keeping the bottle in his hand, glares belligerently at the owner,who hastens to acquiesce in this robbery by saying:]All righto,

Yank. Keep it and have another."[Yank contemptuously turns hisback on the crowd again. For a second there is an embarrassedsilence. Then—]

VOICES:

—We must be passing the Hook. She's beginning to roll to

it. Six days in hell—and then Southampton. Py Yesus, I vish

somepody take my first vatch for me! Gittin' seasick, Square-head?

Drink up and forget it! What's in your bottle? Gin. Dot's nigger

trink. Absinthe? It's doped. You'll go off your chump, Froggy!

Cochon! Whiskey, that's the ticket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep.

Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy.[They all turn to an old,wizened Irishman who is dozing, very drunk, on the benchesforward. His face is extremely monkey-like with all the sad,patient pathos of that animal in his small eyes.]Singa da song,

Caruso Pat! He's gettin' old. The drink is too much for him. He's

too drunk.

PADDY:

—[Blinking about him, starts to his feet resentfully,swaying, holding on to the edge of a bunk.]I'm never too drunk to

sing. 'Tis only when I'm dead to the world I'd be wishful to sing

at all.[With a sort of sad contempt.]"Whiskey Johnny," ye want?

A chanty, ye want? Now that's a queer wish from the ugly like of

you, God help you. But no matther.[He starts to sing in a thin,nasal, doleful tone:]

h, whiskey is the life of man!

Whiskey! O Johnny!

[They all join in on this.]

h, whiskey is the life of man!

Whiskey for my Johnny![Again chorus]

Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!

Whiskey! O Johnny!

Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!

Whiskey for my Johnny!

YANK:

—[Again turning around scornfully.]Aw hell! Nix on dat old

sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead,

too, yuh damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy,

see. Give us a rest. Nix on de loud noise.[With a cynical grin.]

Can't youse see I'm tryin' to t'ink?

ALL:

—[Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amusedmockery.]Think![The chorused word has a brazen metallic qualityas if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by ageneral uproar of hard, barking laughter.]

VOICES:

—Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank.

You gat headache, py yingo!

One thing about it—it rhymes with drink!

Ha, ha, ha!

Drink, don't think!

[A whole chorus of voices has taken up this refrain, stamping onthe floor, pounding on the benches with fists.]

YANK:

—[Taking a gulp from his bottle—good-naturedly.]Aw right.

Can de noise. I got yuh de foist time.[The uproar subsides. Avery drunken sentimental tenor begins to sing:]

"Far away in Canada,

Far across the sea,

There's a lass who fondly waits

Making a home for me—"

YANK:

—[Fiercely contemptuous.]Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where

d'yuh get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh!

I'll knock yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get dat

tripe? Dis is home, see? What d'yuh want wit home?[Proudly.]I

runned away from mine when I was a kid. On'y too glad to beat it,

dat was me. Home was lickings for me, dat's all. But yuh can bet

your shoit noone ain't never licked me since! Wanter try it, any

of youse? Huh! I guess not.[In a more placated but stillcontemptuous tone.]Goils waitin' for yuh, huh? Aw, hell! Dat's

all tripe. Dey don't wait for noone. Dey'd double-cross yuh for a

nickel. Dey're all tarts, get me? Treat 'em rough, dat's me. To

hell wit 'em. Tarts, dat's what, de whole bunch of 'em.

LONG:

—[Very drunk, jumps on a bench excitedly, gesticulating witha bottle in his hand.]Listen 'ere, Comrades! Yank 'ere is right.

'E says this 'ere stinkin' ship is our 'ome. And 'e says as 'ome

is 'ell. And 'e's right! This is 'ell. We lives in 'ell, Comrades

—and right enough we'll die in it.[Raging.]And who's ter blame,

I arsks yer? We ain't. We wasn't born this rotten way. All men is

born free and ekal. That's in the bleedin' Bible, maties. But what

d'they care for the Bible—them lazy, bloated swine what travels

first cabin? Them's the ones. They dragged us down'til we're on'y

wage slaves in the bowels of a bloody ship, sweatin', burnin' up,

eatin' coal dust! Hit's them's ter blame—the damned capitalist

clarss![There had been a gradual murmur of contemptuousresentment rising among the men until now he is interrupted by astorm of catcalls, hisses, boos, hard laughter.]

VOICES:

—Turn it off!

Shut up!

Sit down!

Closa da face!

Tamn fool! (Etc.)

YANK:

—[Standing up and glaring at Long.]Sit down before I knock

yuh down![Long makes haste to efface himself. Yank goes oncontemptuously.]De Bible, huh? De Cap'tlist class, huh? Aw nix on

dat Salvation Army-Socialist bull. Git a soapbox! Hire a hall!

Come and be saved, huh? Jerk us to Jesus, huh? Aw g'wan! I've

listened to lots of guys like you, see, Yuh're all wrong. Wanter

know what I t'ink? Yuh ain't no good for noone. Yuh're de bunk.

Yuh ain't got no noive, get me? Yuh're yellow, dat's what. Yellow,

dat's you. Say! What's dem slobs in de foist cabin got to do wit

us? We're better men dan dey are, ain't we? Sure! One of us guys

could clean up de whole mob wit one mit. Put one of 'em down here

for one watch in de stokehole, what'd happen? Dey'd carry him off

on a stretcher. Dem boids don't amount to nothin'. Dey're just

baggage. Who makes dis old tub run? Ain't it us guys? Well den, we

belong, don't we? We belong and dey don't. Dat's all.[A loudchorus of approval. Yank goes on]As for dis bein' hell—aw, nuts!

Yuh lost your noive, dat's what. Dis is a man's job, get me? It

belongs. It runs dis tub. No stiffs need apply. But yuh're a

stiff, see? Yuh're yellow, dat's you.

VOICES:

—[With a great hard pride in them.]

Righto!

A man's job!

Talk is cheap, Long.

He never could hold up his end.

Divil take him!

Yank's right. We make it go.

Py Gott, Yank say right ting!

We don't need noone cryin' over us.

Makin' speeches.

Throw him out!

Yellow!

Chuck him overboard!

I'll break his jaw for him!

[They crowd around Long threateningly.]

YANK:

—[Half good-natured again—contemptuously.]Aw, take it easy.

Leave him alone. He ain't woith a punch. Drink up. Here's how,

whoever owns dis.[He takes a long swallow from his bottle. Alldrink with him. In a flash all is hilarious amiability again,back-slapping, loud talk, etc.]

PADDY:

—[Who has been sitting in a blinking, melancholy daze—suddenly cries out in a voice full of old sorrow.]We belong to

this, you're saying? We make the ship to go, you're saying? Yerra

then, that Almighty God have pity on us![His voice runs into thewail of a keen, he rocks back and forth on his bench. The menstare at him, startled and impressed in spite of themselves.]Oh,

to be back in the fine days of my youth, ochone! Oh, there was

fine beautiful ships them days—clippers wid tall masts touching

the sky—fine strong men in them—men that was sons of the sea as

if 'twas the mother that bore them. Oh, the clean skins of them,

and the clear eyes, the straight backs and full chests of them!

Brave men they was, and bold men surely! We'd be sailing out,

bound down round the Horn maybe. We'd be making sail in the dawn,

with a fair breeze, singing a chanty song wid no care to it. And

astern the land would be sinking low and dying out, but we'd give

it no heed but a laugh, and never a look behind. For the day that

was, was enough, for we was free men—and I'm thinking 'tis only

slaves do be giving heed to the day that's gone or the day to come

—until they're old like me.[With a sort of religiousexaltation.]Oh, to be scudding south again wid the power of the

Trade Wind driving her on steady through the nights and the days!

Full sail on her! Nights and days! Nights when the foam of the

wake would be flaming wid fire, when the sky'd be blazing and

winking wid stars. Or the full of the moon maybe. Then you'd see

her driving through the gray night, her sails stretching aloft all

silver and white, not a sound on the deck, the lot of us dreaming

dreams, till you'd believe'twas no real ship at all you was on but

a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman they say does be roaming the

seas forevermore widout touching a port. And there was the days,

too. A warm sun on the clean decks. Sun warming the blood of you,

and wind over the miles of shiny green ocean like strong drink to

your lungs. Work—aye, hard work—but who'd mind that at all?

Sure, you worked under the sky and 'twas work wid skill and daring

to it. And wid the day done, in the dog watch, smoking me pipe at

ease, the lookout would be raising land maybe, and we'd see the

mountains of South Americy wid the red fire of the setting sun

painting their white tops and the clouds floating by them![Histone of exaltation ceases. He goes on mournfully.]Yerra, what's

the use of talking? 'Tis a dead man's whisper.[To Yankresentfully.]'Twas them days men belonged to ships, not now.

'Twas them days a ship was part of the sea, and a man was part of

a ship, and the sea joined all together and made it one.

[Scornfully.] Is it one wid this you'd be, Yank—black smoke from

the funnels smudging the sea, smudging the decks—the bloody

engines pounding and throbbing and shaking—wid divil a sight of

sun or a breath of clean air—choking our lungs wid coal dust—

breaking our backs and hearts in the hell of the stokehole—

feeding the bloody furnace—feeding our lives along wid the coal,

I'm thinking—caged in by steel from a sight of the sky like

bloody apes in the Zoo![With a harsh laugh.]Ho-ho, divil mend

you! Is it to belong to that you're wishing? Is it a flesh and

blood wheel of the engines you'd be?

YANK:

—[Who has been listening with a contemptuous sneer, barks outthe answer.]Sure ting! Dat's me! What about it?

PADDY:

—[As if to himself—with great sorrow.]Me time is past due.

That a great wave wid sun in the heart of it may sweep me over the

side sometime I'd be dreaming of the days that's gone!

YANK:

—Aw, yuh crazy Mick![He springs to his feet and advances onPaddy threateningly—then stops, fighting some queer strugglewithin himself—lets his hands fall to his sides—contemptuously.]

Aw, take it easy. Yuh're aw right, at dat. Yuh're bugs, dat's all

—nutty as a cuckoo. All dat tripe yuh been pullin'—Aw, dat's

all right. On'y it's dead, get me? Yuh don't belong no more, see.

Yuh don't get de stuff. Yuh're too old.[Disgustedly.]But aw say,

come up for air onct in a while, can't yuh? See what's happened

since yuh croaked.[He suddenly bursts forth vehemently, growingmore and more excited.]Say! Sure! Sure I meant it! What de hell—

Say, lemme talk! Hey! Hey, you old Harp! Hey, youse guys! Say,

listen to me—wait a moment—I gotter talk, see. I belong and he

don't. He's dead but I'm livin'. Listen to me! Sure I'm part of de

engines! Why de hell not! Dey move, don't dey? Dey're speed, ain't

dey? Dey smash trou, don't dey? Twenty-five knots a hour! Dat's

goin' some! Dat's new stuff! Dat belongs! But him, he's too old.

He gets dizzy. Say, listen. All dat crazy tripe about nights and

days; all dat crazy tripe about stars and moons; all dat crazy

tripe about suns and winds, fresh air and de rest of it—Aw hell,

dat's all a dope dream! Hittin' de pipe of de past, dat's what

he's doin'. He's old and don't belong no more. But me, I'm young!

I'm in de pink! I move wit it! It, get me! I mean de ting dat's de

guts of all dis. It ploughs trou all de tripe he's been sayin'. It

blows dat up! It knocks dat dead! It slams dat off en de face of

de oith! It, get me! De engines and de coal and de smoke and all

de rest of it! He can't breathe and swallow coal dust, but I kin,

see? Dat's fresh air for me! Dat's food for me! I'm new, get me?

Hell in de stokehole? Sure! It takes a man to work in hell. Hell,

sure, dat's my fav'rite climate. I eat it up! I git fat on it!

It's me makes it hot! It's me makes it roar! It's me makes it

move! Sure, on'y for me everyting stops. It all goes dead, get me?

De noise and smoke and all de engines movin' de woild, dey stop.

Dere ain't nothin' no more! Dat's what I'm sayin'. Everyting else

dat makes de woild move, somep'n makes it move. It can't move

witout somep'n else, see? Den yuh get down to me. I'm at de

bottom, get me! Dere ain't nothin' foither. I'm de end! I'm de

start! I start somep'n and de woild moves! It—dat's me!—de new

dat's moiderin' de old! I'm de ting in coal dat makes it boin; I'm

steam and oil for de engines; I'm de ting in noise dat makes yuh

hear it; I'm smoke and express trains and steamers and factory

whistles; I'm de ting in gold dat makes it money! And I'm what

makes iron into steel! Steel, dat stands for de whole ting! And

I'm steel—steel—steel! I'm de muscles in steel, de punch behind

it![As he says this he pounds with his fist against the steelbunks. All the men, roused to a pitch of frenzied self-glorification by his speech, do likewise. There is a deafeningmetallic roar, through which Yank's voice can be heard bellowing.]

Slaves, hell! We run de whole woiks. All de rich guys dat tink

dey're somep'n, dey ain't nothin'! Dey don't belong. But us guys,

we're in de move, we're at de bottom, de whole ting is us![Paddyfrom the start of Yank's speech has been taking one gulp afteranother from his bottle, at first frightenedly, as if he wereafraid to listen, then desperately, as if to drown his senses, butfinally has achieved complete indifferent, even amused,drunkenness. Yank sees his lips moving. He quells the uproar witha shout.]Hey, youse guys, take it easy! Wait a moment! De nutty

Harp is sayin' someth'n.

PADDY:

—[Is heard now—throws his head back with a mocking burst oflaughter.]Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho—-

YANK:

—[Drawing back his fist, with a snarl.]Aw! Look out who

yuh're givin' the bark!

PADDY:

—[Begins to sing the "Muler of Dee" with enormous good-nature.]

"I care for nobody, no, not I,

And nobody cares for me."

YANK:

—[Good-natured himself in a flash, interrupts PADDY with aslap on the bare back like a report.]Dat's de stuff! Now yuh're

gettin' wise to somep'n. Care for nobody, dat's de dope! To hell

wit 'em all! And nix on nobody else carin'. I kin care for myself,

get me![Eight bells sound, muffled, vibrating through the steelwalls as if some enormous brazen gong were imbedded in the heartof the ship. All the men jump up mechanically, fie through thedoor silently close upon each other's heels in what is very like aprisoners lockstep. YANK slaps PADDY on the back.]Our watch, yuh

old Harp![Mockingly.]Come on down in hell. Eat up de coal dust.

Drink in de heat. It's it, see! Act like yuh liked it, yuh better—

or croak yuhself.

PADDY:

—[With jovial defiance.]To the divil wid it! I'll not

report this watch. Let thim log me and be damned. I'm no slave the

like of you. I'll be sittin' here at me ease, and drinking, and

thinking, and dreaming dreams.

YANK:

—[Contemptuously.]Tinkin' and dreamin', what'll that get

yuh? What's tinkin' got to do wit it? We move, don't we? Speed,

ain't it? Fog, dat's all you stand for. But we drive trou dat,