Les Blancs

by Lorraine Hansberry

  TSHEMBE (At the door, rattle and headpiece in hand: it is a great imposing affair of furs and animal horns) Abioseh, I know the tale of Jesus. But I think now if there was such a man he must have been what all men are: the son of man who died the death of men. And if the legend is true at all that he was a good man, then he must have despised the priests of the temples of complicity! I am going out to our people.

  (Looking from one brother to the other, he dons the headpiece)

  ABIOSEH You are condemning yourself to hell, Tshembe Matoseh! (TSHEMBE throws back the door flap, and a sudden shaft of yellow light glints on the silver crucifix as ABIOSEH raises it above his head and intones a prayer in ringing liturgical Latin, TSHEMBE throws back his head and begins, with all his power, to join in the offstage funereal chant. The two barbaric religious cries play one against the other in vigorous and desperate counterpoint. The lights come down on the novice Paul Augustus on his knees and the terrified ERIC, still clutching his robes as TSHEMBE sweeps out)

  Blackout

  ACT ONE

  SCENE 3

  Evening. MME. NEILSEN sits alone on the veranda taking the night air. CHARLIE appears in the parlor doorway and regards the night, momentarily caught up in the distant funeral chant offstage.

  CHARLIE “And it shall follow as the night the day—” (Calling inside) Say, Doctor Gotterling, you know this is the only place I’ve ever been where the night really does follow the day. Whatever happened to your twilights here?

  (MARTA joins him in the doorway. They are not aware of the old lady)

  MARTA (Tongue-in-cheek) Well, Mr. Morris, I shall tell you: Since they serve no useful purpose at the Mission—we have eliminated them entirely!

  CHARLIE Shall we stroll by the river, Doctor?

  MADAME Excellent, Mr. Morris! Marta is romanced so seldom!

  (They start and then laugh)

  CHARLIE (Extending his arm) Doctor—shall we?

  MARTA (Not unpleased) No, I think not.

  CHARLIE (With a courtly turn toward MME. NEILSEN) Madame?

  MADAME (Delighted) No, I think not!

  CHARLIE Won’t change your mind, Doctor? I’ve always wanted once in my lifetime to stroll through the African jungle in the moonlight, arm in arm with a lovely lady.

  MARTA Have you really?

  CHARLIE No, but I thought it sounded good.

  MARTA (Not moving) It could be dangerous.

  CHARLIE Doctor, I’m not that dangerous!

  MARTA Really, Mr. Morris, it’s not wise to go wandering at this hour. The terror isn’t a joke—as much as we all wish it were.

  CHARLIE It’s almost … impossible … to associate terror with that incredible moonlight.

  MARTA (Tightly) They found the Hokinson family murdered in the very same incredible moonlight. (A beat) They had three children.

  CHARLIE And is there no way—?

  MARTA This country is almost a quarter the size of the United States, Mr. Morris. The patrols have to come from wherever they are when the alarms go off. And sometimes they don’t go off at all. Sometimes the first thing they do is cut the flare signal wires. Sometimes the servants are in on it. But then—(With sudden bitterness, scanning the darkness)—they all are.

  MADAME Marta! You know better than that, my dear … Ah, how I should like a bit of music! Do you perhaps play an instrument, Mr. Morris?

  CHARLIE (Stirring from preoccupation) Oh? Ah—no, I’m afraid that I don’t.

  MADAME What a pity that Torvald did not get back in time to play for us this evening. You will love the austerity of the cello in this lush, tropical atmosphere.

  MARTA (Rather blurting) I think it’s maddening of him to stay away like this.

  MADAME Torvald has been trampling around these villages for forty years, my dear. When he has done whatever he has to do, he will come home.

  (A jeep slams to a stop offstage, followed by the rushed steps of men)

  CHARLIE Now what—?

  MADAME (Coolly, dryly) It is the sound of the nerve ends of frightened men, Mr. Morris.

  (RICE enters with two SOLDIERS—rifles borne at the ready—who patrol slowly back and forth as the scene continues)

  MARTA Major Rice.

  RICE There’s been another attack.

  (DEKOVEN comes out of the parlor)

  MARTA Dear God.

  RICE The Duchesne family. Wiped out.

  MARTA Why? Why?

  RICE All of them.

  MADAME No, no.

  RICE Including the servants. Where is the Reverend?

  DEKOVEN He hasn’t returned.

  RICE What has to happen before you people finally understand security measures!

  MADAME (Quietly, reflectively) The Duchesnes … the Duchesnes … they were decent people …

  RICE And these are the savages they want us to sit and “talk” with—

  CHARLIE Major Rice, I’d hardly call Kumalo a savage.

  RICE NO. Of course not. The blacks are always “civilized” in the next man’s country, aren’t they, Mr. Morris? I would like to speak to you alone, DeKoven.

  (He moves briskly up the steps and exits into the parlor. DEKOVEN follows)

  CHARLIE (To MARTA) I didn’t mean to seem unsympathetic.

  MARTA I’m afraid that’s rather the way it sounded.

  (At exactly this moment TSHEMBE appears out of the darkness, dressed in African garb. CHARLIE starts violently and moves forward instinctively to interpose himself before MARTA. At the same time the SOLDIERS whirl and cock their rifles)

  MARTA No, wait! (TSHEMBE halts. She peers at him. To the SOLDIERS) It’s all right.

  (They resume their pacing. TSHEMBE moves forward, looks CHARLIE in the eye and—very deliberately—curtsies in mock deference to the American’s courage, then comes calmly past him)

  MADAME Who IS it?

  TSHEMBE (Softly) Good evening, Madame.

  (He squats before her)

  MADAME Tshembe! Why, you’ve come home, you rogue! … Let me touch your face!

  (He leans forward and she feels his features eagerly)

  TSHEMBE (Playfully, familiarly) I am come fully to manhood since last you saw me.

  MADAME Yes, yes! These are a man’s features. Are you handsome as the devil?

  TSHEMBE Some women around the world have thought so, Madame.

  MADAME But where is your hair? That marvelous bush—

  TSHEMBE I wear it short now—in the way of city men.

  MADAME (Laughing) And with one of those dreadful parts!

  TSHEMBE Some women around the world have voiced no complaints!

  MADAME Oh, Tshembe! Well, did you have time to get yourself a decent education at least?

  TSHEMBE I am fashionably well spoken, I think, Madame.

  MADAME (Delighted with him) And fresh as the wind still! Where have you been, you incorrigible?

  TSHEMBE Waltzing around the world, Madame.

  MADAME Not the waltzes I taught you!

  TSHEMBE I found the town where you were born. I saw your beautiful mountains …

  MADAME Ah, so you saw my mountains … my beautiful mountains.

  TSHEMBE They were as you told me. I brought you a gift from there.

  (He pulls out a thing in flimsy tissue. She tears the paper away and accidentally trips the spring which sends a “cuckoo” bird out of its clock house. They both laugh)

  MADAME (Sobering) Tell me. Have you seen Eric?

  TSHEMBE (Understanding) I have seen Eric.

  MADAME It is good you have come. And where is your brother Abioseh? Ah, he was such a good student. So stiff-faced and serious. Not like you, constantly raising your impudent eyes to me and saying, “But, Madame, you have not told me why it is so.”

  (She boxes his head and they laugh as RICE and DEKOVEN reemerge)

  RICE (Continuing, to DEKOVEN) I repeat: we shall require coooperation for the duration. Your personal attitudes—(Noticing TSHEMBE) Who’s the kaffir?

  MADAME We do not have �
�kaffirs” here, Major Rice. We have friends who are Africans.

  (TSHEMBE turns)

  RICE Tshembe!

  DEKOVEN Welcome home!

  TSHEMBE (Rising and nodding to DEKOVEN) Doctor.

  RICE (Routinely) Your papers …

  TSHEMBLE I don’t have them with me.

  (He starts to walk away—the SOLDIERS cock their rifles in warning. He halts)

  RICE (Crossing towards him) Why not?

  MADAME (With restrained outrage) Major Rice, Tshembe was born here—as you well know! Why should he have to carry those ridiculous papers?

  MARTA Madame, it is the emergency …

  (TSHEMBE looks at her swiftly; she averts her eyes)

  RICE Why has he suddenly reappeared?

  TSHEMBE I have come home—

  RICE Yes. That much is clear. Now up with your sleeves!

  (He gets out his flashlight. TSHEMBE stiffens and at last obeys. MADAME sits rigid and DEKOVEN turns away as the MAJOR runs the light over TSHEMBE’s arms)

  MARTA (To CHARLIE) They take a blood oath. Sometimes there are marks …

  RICE (To TSHEMBE) All right. That will do.

  MADAME I shall report you to someone, Major! I shall find someone in this country gone mad to whom it is possible to report you!

  RICE (Ignoring her) Why are you in the regalia?

  TSHEMBE I came home … (Turning to the old woman) … to my father’s funeral, Madame.

  MADAME (A deep gasp of hurt) Ahhhh … The drums! The drums … Abioseh, dear stubborn old man … he has left us.

  (It is the last straw: completely beside himself, DEKOVEN advances)

  DEKOVEN Well, it would appear that you may now go protect civilization someplace else, Major! This particular “terrorist” has turned out to be a son in mourning!

  RICE (Wheeling in fury) I will hope, Doctor, that had you seen those little children lying in their own blood tonight, you might finally be able to get your sympathies in order. Whatever the nature of your attachments—elsewhere! My condolences, Tshembe. (Then, to all of them) As of tonight, this entire area is under martial jurisdiction. I must order everyone, male and female, to wear side-arms. I am sorry, Dr. Gotterling, but at this point—

  MARTA I understand, Major.

  RICE Mr. Morris?

  CHARLIE Are you “ordering” me, Major?

  RICE I am making a suggestion that well might save your life.

  CHARLIE (Drawing up his sleeve) Major, would you like to check my arm?

  RICE Mr. Morris, this is Africa—

  CHARLIE Yes, I know. Where Stanley met Livingstone!

  RICE Precisely. And where one does not conduct an enquiry on the ethics of resisting cannibalism while being seasoned for the pot! (To DEKOVEN) Doctor—?

  DEKOVEN Who will order me to fire it, Major?

  (He throws down his cigarette and strides out)

  RICE If this Mission persists—

  MADAME (Interrupting wryly) I trust, Major Rice, you don’t expect me to wear one. After all—(Peering at him)—I might hit you.

  (RICE turns to TSHEMBE)

  RICE Why don’t some of you educated chaps talk sense into these murderers? What do they think they are going to accomplish? Murdering people who never did them a moment’s harm—and their own people to boot? We don’t pretend that it’s been all jolly on our side—but this business—what’s the good of it, boy? ’Tisn’t going to solve a bloody thing! And they can’t win, you know. Why don’t the fellows like you do something … talk to them? (They gaze at one another—the European with almost plaintive urgency; the African without expression. At last RICE turns—a man perplexed and embarrassed, who desires, like all of us, sympathy) There—you see, Mr. Morris: the response to reason. And it will be no different with Kumalo. It may surprise you, sir, but I do not enjoy my present role. I am not by temperament an adventurous sort. Or a harsh one. I have become a military man only because the times demand it. (A curious, urgent and almost sad defensiveness) This is my country, you see. I came here when I was a boy. I worked hard. I married here. I have two lovely daughters and, if I may presume an immodesty, a most charming and devoted wife. At some other time I should have liked to have had you out to our farm. This is our home, Mr. Morris. Men like myself had the ambition, the energy and the ability to come here and make this country into something … (He turns ever so slightly from time to time to catch TSHEMBE’s expression) They had it for centuries and did nothing with it. It isn’t a question of empire, you see. It is our home: the right to bring up our children with culture and grace, a bit of music after dinner and a glass of decent wine; the right to watch the sun go down over our beautiful hills—(Looking off with a surge of appreciation) And they are beautiful hills, aren’t they? We wish the blacks no ill. But—(Simply, matter-of-factly, a man confirmed)—it is our home, Mr. Morris. (A beat. He looks up, a little embarrassed) I should be grateful if, whatever other impression you may have received, you would try to remember that when you write of this place.

  MADAME Marta, I must go to bed. (Pointedly) Do you know, in some ways I think I am quite glad to be going blind? The less one sees of this world, I am convinced, the better …

  (RICE shoots MADAME a look. MARTA rises to assist her)

  RICE (To TSHEMBE) There is an eight-thirty curfew for all natives. (He looks at his watch) It is now eight-fourteen. (To all, crisply) Good night.

  (He exits. CHARLIE stands looking after him)

  MARTA (Her arm about MADAME) Good night, Mr. Morris. Good night, Tshembe.

  CHARLIE Good night, Doctor.

  MADAME (Pausing before TSHEMBE) You must come back and tell me all about your travels, Tshembe. I am so pleased that you got to see my mountains. I should have loved to have seen them again … Ah yes … (She reaches out to touch him, but instead balls up her fist as if to compress all the emotion that is in her and lightly touches his chest.) Good night, child.

  (They exit. CHARLIE and TSHEMBE regard each other across the veranda)

  CHARLIE Well, Mr.—

  TSHEMBE (Turning, crisply) Matoseh.

  CHARLIE (Hand extended) Morris. (They shake. It is cursory, abrupt; the pace set by the African’s disinterest) How’s about a drink? I know where they keep the liquor and it’s pretty decent stuff. Even without ice.

  TSHEMBE (As if stirring from a preoccupation) Thank you, no. In fact, I will say good night also.

  CHARLIE (Swiftly, to stop him) I think I know everything you were feeling when that ugly scene was happening, Mr. Matoseh.

  TSHEMBE (Halting, with restrained hostility) Do you?

  CHARLIE Yes. I felt very sorry for both you men, you and Rice, then. It’s a particular kind of vantage point given to an outsider.

  TSHEMBE (Crisply) Yes, it was precisely the “vantage point” I had in your country.

  CHARLIE (Getting it and smiling easily) I’m sure. How about that drink?

  TSHEMBE I think you heard. There is a curfew here for—“natives.”

  CHARLIE I don’t think either one of us cares one hell of a lot about that curfew. (Pointing to the veranda roof and grinning) Besides, you are indoors technically.

  TSHEMBE Men die here on account of such technicalities.

  CHARLIE (Simply, looking at the other) I really would like to talk. (TSHEMBE says nothing but remains) I’ll get the bottle. (He does so. Smoothly, engagingly: a man practiced at setting others at ease) I’ll tell you right off, Matoseh, I know you are trying to decide: which kind am I? One of the obtuse ones who is sure to ask you all about rituals and lions? Or one of the top-heavy “little magazine” types who is going to engage a real live African intellectual in a discussion of “negritude” and Senghor’s poetry to show that I am—(He winks; TSHEMBE smiles back the least bit, warming)—really—“in.” Well, I am neither. I am a man who feels like talking. Sit down.

  TSHEMBE (Sits) American straightforwardness is almost as disarming as Americans invariably think it is.

  (CHARLIE grins and lifts his glas
s in friendly salute; TSHEMBE reacts in kind and they drink)

  CHARLIE You married?

  TSHEMBE Yes. I have, however, only one wife!

  CHARLIE (Annoyed) Look, I thought we had decided to assume that the other was something more than an ass, Matoseh.

  TSHEMBE It may be, Mr. Morris, that I have developed counterassumptions because I have had—(Mimicking lightly but cruelly)—too many long, lo-o-ong “talks” wherein the white intellectual begins by suggesting not only fellowship but the universal damnation of imperialism. But that, you see, is always only the beginning. Then the real game is begun. (With mock grandiloquence) The game of plumbing my depths! Of trying to dig out my “frustrations”! And of finding deep in my “primeval soul” what you think is the secret—quintessential—“root” of my nationalism: “envy and SHAME”! (As swiftly dropping it) But, you see, I have already had those talks. They bore me.

  CHARLIE I see that you are outraged by others’ assumptions but that you are full of them! Let’s get a simple thing understood: I am not a hundred other people. Are you? (They glare at one another; by his silence and barely perceptible smile TSHEMBE concedes) Cigarette?

  TSHEMBE Thank you.

  CHARLIE What parts of the States were you in?

  TSHEMBE Most of your urban capitals: Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago … New York, of course.

  CHARLIE Man, you really got around. I hope the shortness of your visit didn’t distort your view? That happens, you know.

  TSHEMBE (Dryly) I believe I understood what I saw in America.

  CHARLIE (Laughing) Well now, it’s the damnedest thing—everybody seems to come with preconceptions. You know, America is a lot more than supermarkets, instant coffee and the fast buck.

  TSHEMBE I don’t believe that America is misunderstood because of its instant coffee, Mr. Morris. But then I don’t believe it is very often misunderstood.

  CHARLIE (Turning his cigarette about) Did you get down to our … tobacco country at all?

  TSHEMBE Yes, I was in the South! (With deliberate impatience) And yes, I did find your American apartheid absolutely enraging!

  CHARLIE (Openly frustrated) You really can’t come off it, can you! Why the hell should it be so hard for us to talk, man?! Christ, all I want to do is talk!

  TSHEMBE (Whirling on him, words flying) And just why should we be able to “talk” so easily? What is this marvelous nonsense with you Americans? For a handshake, a grin, a cigarette and half a glass of whiskey you want three hundred years to disappear—and in five minutes! Do you really think the rape of a continent dissolves in cigarette smoke? (He drops and crushes his cigarette underfoot) This is Africa, Mr. Morris, and I am an African, not one of your simpering American Negroes sitting around discussing admission to country clubs!