Читать книгу Desire Under the Elms - Eugene O'Neill - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Exterior of the Farmhouse. It is sunset of a day at the beginning of summer in the year 1850. There is no wind and everything is still. The sky above the roof is suffused with deep colors, the green of the elms glows, but the house is in shadow, seeming pale and washed out by contrast.

A door opens and Eben Cabot comes to the end of the porch and stands looking down the road to the right. He has a large bell in his hand and this he swings mechanically, awakening a deafening clangor. Then he puts his hands on his hips and stares up at the sky. He sighs with a puzzled awe and blurts out with halting appreciation.

EBEN--God! Purty! (His eyes fall and he stares about him frowningly. He is twenty-five, tall and sinewy. His face is well-formed, good-looking, but its expression is resentful and defensive. His defiant, dark eyes remind one of a wild animal's in captivity. Each day is a cage in which he finds himself trapped but inwardly unsubdued. There is a fierce repressed vitality about him. He has black hair, mustache, a thin curly trace of beard. He is dressed in rough farm clothes. He spits on the ground with intense disgust, turns and goes back into the house. Simeon and Peter come in from their work in the fields. They are tall men, much older than their half-brother [Simeon is thirty-nine and Peter thirty-seven], built on a squarer, simpler model, fleshier in body, more bovine and homelier in face, shrewder and more practical. Their shoulders stoop a bit from years of farm work. They clump heavily along in their clumsy thick-soled boots caked with earth. Their clothes, their faces, hands, bare arms and throats are earth-stained. They smell of earth. They stand together for a moment in front of the house and, as if with the one impulse, stare dumbly up at the sky, leaning on their hoes. Their faces have a compressed, unresigned expression. As they look upward, this softens.)

SIMEON--(grudgingly) Purty.

PETER--Ay-eh.

SIMEON--(suddenly) Eighteen years ago.

PETER--What?

SIMEON--Jenn. My woman. She died.

PETER--I'd fergot.

SIMEON--I rec'lect--now an' agin. Makes it lonesome. She'd hair long's a hoss' tail--an' yaller like gold!

PETER--Waal--she's gone. (this with indifferent finality--then after a pause) They's gold in the West, Sim.

SIMEON--(still under the influence of sunset--vaguely) In the sky?

PETER--Waal--in a manner o' speakin'--thar's the promise. (growing excited) Gold in the sky--in the West--Golden Gate--Californi-a!--Goldest West!--fields o' gold!

SIMEON--(excited in his turn) Fortunes layin' just atop o' the ground waitin' t' be picked! Solomon's mines, they says! (For a moment they continue looking up at the sky--then their eyes drop.)

PETER--(with sardonic bitterness) Here--it's stones atop o' the ground--stones atop o' stones--makin' stone walls--year atop o' year--him 'n' yew 'n' me 'n' then Eben--makin' stone walls fur him to fence us in!

SIMEON--We've wuked. Give our strength. Give our years. Plowed 'em under in the ground--(he stamps rebelliously)--rottin'--makin' soil for his crops! (a pause) Waal--the farm pays good for hereabouts.

PETER--If we plowed in Californi-a, they'd be lumps o' gold in the furrow!

SIMEON--Californi-a's t'other side o' earth, a'most. We got t' calc'late--

PETER--(after a pause) 'Twould be hard fur me, too, to give up what we've 'arned here by our sweat. (A pause. Eben sticks his head out of the dining-room window, listening.)

SIMEON--Ay-eh. (a pause) Mebbe--he'll die soon.

PETER--(doubtfully) Mebbe.

SIMEON--Mebbe--fur all we knows--he's dead now.

PETER--Ye'd need proof.

SIMEON--He's been gone two months--with no word.

PETER--Left us in the fields an evenin' like this. Hitched up an' druv off into the West. That's plumb onnateral. He hain't never been off this farm 'ceptin' t' the village in thirty year or more, not since he married Eben's maw. (A pause. Shrewdly) I calc'late we might git him declared crazy by the court.

SIMEON--He skinned 'em too slick. He got the best o' all on 'em. They'd never b'lieve him crazy. (a pause) We got t' wait--till he's under ground.

EBEN--(with a sardonic chuckle) Honor thy father! (They turn, startled, and stare at him. He grins, then scowls.) I pray he's died. (They stare at him. He continues matter-of-factly.) Supper's ready.

SIMEON AND PETER--(together) Ay-eh.

EBEN--(gazing up at the sky) Sun's downin' purty.

SIMEON AND PETER--(pointing) Ay-eh. They's gold in the West.

EBEN--(pointing) Ay-eh. Yonder atop o' the hill pasture, ye mean?

SIMEON AND PETER--(together) In Californi-a!

EBEN--Hunh? (stares at them indifferently for a second, then drawls) Waal--supper's gittin' cold. (He turns back into kitchen.)

SIMEON--(startled--smacks his lips) I air hungry!

PETER--(sniffing) I smells bacon!

SIMEON--(with hungry appreciation) Bacon's good!

PETER--(in same tone) Bacon's bacon! (They turn, shouldering each other, their bodies bumping and rubbing together as they hurry clumsily to their food, like two friendly oxen toward their evening meal. They disappear around the right corner of house and can be heard entering the door.)

(The Curtain Falls)