Anna Christie

SCENE—"Johnny-The-Priest's" saloon near South Street, New York City. The stage is divided into two sections, showing a small back room on the right. On the left, forward, of the barroom, a large window looking out on the street. Beyond it, the main entrance—a double swinging door. Farther back, another window. The bar runs from left to right nearly the whole length of the rear wall. In back of the bar, a small showcase displaying a few bottles of case goods, for which there is evidently little call. The remainder of the rear space in front of the large mirrors is occupied by half-barrels of cheap whiskey of the "nickel-a-shot" variety, from which the liquor is drawn by means of spigots. On the right is an open doorway leading to the back room. In the back room are four round wooden tables with five chairs grouped about each. In the rear, a family entrance opening on a side street.

It is late afternoon of a day in fall.

As the curtain rises, Johnny is discovered. "Johnny-The-Priest" deserves his nickname. With his pale, thin, clean-shaven face, mild blue eyes and white hair, a cassock would seem more suited to him than the apron he wears. Neither his voice nor his general manner dispel this illusion which has made him a personage of the water front. They are soft and bland. But beneath all his mildness one senses the man behind the mask—cynical, callous, hard as nails. He is lounging at ease behind the bar, a pair of spectacles on his nose, reading an evening paper.

LARRY—He'll come round all right with some grub in him.

MARTHY—Sure. [LARRY goes back to the bar and resumes his newspaper. MARTHY sips what is left of her schooner reflectively. There is the ring of the family entrance bell. LARRY comes to the door and opens it a trifle—then, with a puzzled expression, pulls it wide. ANNA CHRISTOPHERSON enters. She is a tall, blond, fully-developed girl of twenty, handsome after a large, Viking-daughter fashion but now run down in health and plainly showing all the outward evidences of belonging to the world's oldest profession. Her youthful face is already hard and cynical beneath its layer of make-up. Her clothes are the tawdry finery of peasant stock turned prostitute. She comes and sinks wearily in a chair by the table, left front.]

ANNA—Gimme a whiskey—ginger ale on the side. [Then, as LARRY turns to go, forcing a winning smile at him.] And don't be stingy, baby.

LARRY—[Sarcastically.] Shall I serve it in a pail?

ANNA—[With a hard laugh.] That suits me down to the ground. [LARRY goes into the bar. The two women size each other up with frank stares. LARRY comes back with the drink which he sets before ANNA and returns to the bar again. ANNA downs her drink at a gulp. Then, after a moment, as the alcohol begins to rouse her, she turns to MARTHY with a friendly smile.] Gee, I needed that bad, all right, all right!

MARTHY—[Nodding her head sympathetically.] Sure—yuh look all in. Been on a bat?

ANNA—No—travelling—day and a half on the train. Had to sit up all night in the dirty coach, too. Gawd, I thought I'd never get here!

CHRIS—[Vaguely.] Nutting—nutting. [He stands before the door to the back room in an agony of embarrassed emotion—then he forces himself to a bold decision, pushes open the door and walks in. He stands there, casts a shy glance at ANNA, whose brilliant clothes, and, to him, high-toned appearance awe him terribly. He looks about him with pitiful nervousness as if to avoid the appraising look with which she takes in his face, his clothes, etc—his voice seeming to plead for her forbearance.] Anna!

ANNA—[Acutely embarrassed in her turn.] Hello—father. She told me it was you. I yust got here a little while ago.

CHRIS—[Goes slowly over to her chair.] It's good—for see you—after all dem years, Anna. [He bends down over her. After an embarrassed struggle they manage to kiss each other.]

ANNA—[A trace of genuine feeling in her voice.] It's good to see you, too.

CHRIS—[Grasps her arms and looks into her face—then overcome by a wave of fierce tenderness.] Anna lilla! Anna lilla! [Takes her in his arms.]

ANNA—[Shrinks away from him, half-frightened.] What's that—Swedish? I don't know it. [Then as if seeking relief from the tension in a voluble chatter.] Gee, I had an awful trip coming here. I'm all in. I had to sit up in the dirty coach all night—couldn't get no sleep, hardly—and then I had a hard job finding this place. I never been in New York before, you know, and—

As the curtain rises, ANNA is discovered standing near the coil of rope on which the lantern is placed. She looks healthy, transformed, the natural color has come back to her face. She has on a black, oilskin coat, but wears no hat. She is staring out into the fog astern with an expression of awed wonder. The cabin door is pushed open and CHRIS appears. He is dressed in yellow oilskins—coat, pants, sou'wester—and wears high sea-boots.

CHRIS—[The glare from the cabin still in his eyes, peers blinkmgly astern.] Anna! [Receiving no reply, he calls again, this time with apparent apprehension.] Anna!

ANNA—[With a start—making a gesture with her hand as if to impose silence—in a hushed whisper.] Yes, here I am. What d'you want?

CHRIS—[Walks over to her—solicitously.] Don't you come turn in, Anna? It's late—after four bells. It ain't good for you stay out here in fog, Ay tank.

ANNA—Why not? [With a trace of strange exultation.] I love this fog! Honest! It's so—[She hesitates, groping for a word.]—Funny and still. I feel as if I was—out of things altogether.

CHRIS—[Spitting disgustedly.] Fog's vorst one of her dirty tricks, py yingo!

ANNA—[With a short laugh.] Beefing about the sea again? I'm getting so's I love it, the little I've seen.

CHRIS—[Glancing at her moodily.] Dat's foolish talk, Anna. You see her more, you don't talk dat vay. [Then seeing her irritation, he hastily adopts a more cheerful tone.]

BURKE—[Talking aloud to himself.] Row, ye divil! Row! [Then lifting his head and looking about him.] What's this tub? Well, we're safe anyway—with the help of God. [He makes the sign of the cross mechanically. JOHNSON comes along the deck to port, supporting the fourth man, who is babbling to himself incoherently. BURKE glances at him disdainfully.] Is it losing the small wits ye iver had, ye are? Deck-scrubbing scut! [They pass him and go into the cabin, leaving the door open. BURKE sags forward wearily.] I'm bate out—bate out entirely.

ANNA—[Comes out of the cabin with a tumbler quarter-full of whiskey in her hand. She gives a start when she sees BURKE so near her, the light from the open door falling full on him. Then, overcoming what is evidently a feeling of repulsion, she comes up beside him.] Here you are. Here's a drink for you. You need it, I guess.

BURKE—[Lifting his head slowly—confusedly.] Is it dreaming I am?

ANNA—[Half smiling.] Drink it and you'll find it ain't no dream.

BURKE—To hell with the drink—but I'll take it just the same. [He tosses it down.] Aah! I'm needin' that—and 'tis fine stuff. [Looking up at her with frank, grinning admiration.] But 'twasn't the booze I meant when I said, was I dreaming. I thought you was some mermaid out of the sea come to torment me. [He reaches out to feel of her arm.] Aye, rale flesh and blood, divil a less.