The Emperor Jones by Eugene O'Neill (best books to read for women .TXT) 📖

The Emperor Jones

Eugene O’Neil

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 tom-tom’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 on it when you landed here first. You didn’ ‘ave no ‘igh and mighty airs in them days!

JONES—(_his hand going to his revolver like a flash—menacingly_)

Talk polite, white man! Talk polite, you heah me! I’m boss heah now, is you fergettin’?

(_The Cockney seems about to challenge this last statement with the facts but something in the other’s eyes holds and cowes him._)

SMITHERS—(_in a cowardly whine_) No ‘arm meant, old top.

JONES—(_condescendingly_) I accepts yo’ apology. (_lets his hand fall from his revolver_) No use’n you rakin’ up ole times. What I was den is one thing. What I is now ‘s another. You didn’t let me in on yo’ crooked work out o’ no kind feelin’s dat time. I done de dirty work fo’ you — and most o’ de brain work, too, fo’ dat matter — and I was wu’th money to you, dat’s de reason.

SMITHERS—Well, blimey, I give yer a start, didn’t I — when no one else would. I wasn’t afraid to ‘ire yer like the rest was — ‘count of the story about your breakin’ jail back in the States.

JONES—No, you didn’t have no s’cuse to look down on me fo’ dat. You been in jail you’self more’n once.

SMITHERS—(_furiously_) It’s a lie! (_then trying to pass it off by an attempt at scorn_) Garn! Who told yer that fairy tale?

JONES—Dey’s some tings I ain’t got to be tole. I kin see ‘em in folk’s eyes. (_then after a pause—meditatively_) Yes, you sho’ give me a start. And it didn’t take long from dat time to git dese fool, woods’ niggers right where I wanted dem. (_with pride_) From stowaway to Emperor in two years! Dat’s goin’ some!

SMITHERS—(_with curiosity_) And I bet you got yer pile o’ money ‘id safe some place.

JONES—(_with satisfaction_) I sho’ has! And it’s in a foreign bank where no pusson don’t ever git it out but me no matter what come. You didn’t s’pose

I was holdin’ down dis Emperor job for de glory in it, did you? Sho’! De fuss and glory part of it, dat’s only to turn de heads o’ de low-flung, bush niggers dat’s here. Dey wants de big circus show for deir money.

I gives it to ‘em an’ I gits de money. (_with a grin_) De long green, dat’s me every time! (_then rebukingly_) But you ain’t got no kick agin me, Smithers. I’se paid you back all you done for me many times. Ain’t I pertected you and winked at all de crooked tradin’ you been doin’ right out in de broad day. Sho’. I has — and me makin’ laws to stop it at de same time! (_He chuckles._)

SMITHERS—(_grinning_) But, meanin’ no ‘arm, you been grabbin’ right and left yourself, ain’t yer? Look at the taxes you’ve put on ‘em! Blimey! You’ve squeezed ‘em dry!

JONES—(_chuckling_) No, dey ain’t all dry yet. I’se still heah, ain’t I?

SMITHERS—(_smiling at his secret thought_) They’re dry right now, you’ll find out. (_changing the subject abruptly_)

And as for me breakin’ laws, you’ve broke ‘em all yerself just as fast as yer made ‘em.

JONES—Ain’t r de Emperor? De laws don’t go for him. (_judicially_)

You heah what I tells you, Smithers. Dere’s little stealin’ like you does, and dere’s big stealin’ like I does. For de little stealin’ dey gits you in jail soon or late. For de big stealin’ dey makes you Emperor and puts you in de Hall o’ Fame when you croaks. (_reminiscently_) If dey’s one thing I learns in ten years on de Pullman ca’s listenin’ to de white quality talk, it’s dat same fact. And when I gits a chance to use it I winds up Emperor in two years.

SMITHERS—(_unable to repress the genuine admiration of the small fry for the large_) Yes, yer turned the bleedin’ trick, all fight. Blimey, I never seen a bloke ‘as ‘ad the bloomin’ luck you ‘as.

JONES—(_severely_) Luck? What you mean — luck?

SMITHERS—I suppose you’ll say as that swank about the silver bullet ain’t luck — and that was what first got the fool blacks on yer side the time of the revolution, wasn’t it?

JONES—(_with a laugh_) Oh, dat silver bullet! Sho’