The sound of the riverboat whistle is heard several times in the distance. ERIC, on the Mission steps, picks up CHARLIE’s typewriter and valises, and exits over the rise, while CHARLIE stands for a moment taking in the scene for the last time.
In the parlor sits MME. NEILSEN, in mourning black, behind her, in shadow and candlelight, the catafalque of her husband’s coffin, arranged with Protestant austerity. Beside it stands MARTA who, after a moment, presses MADAME’s hand and turns to go—as CHARLIE enters. Their eyes meet; she barely nods and exits. He crosses to MADAME and places his hand on her shoulder; she covers it with hers. He starts after ERIC as across the compound comes TSHEMBE, wearing tie and jacket for the visit.
CHARLIE (Halting) Matoseh—
TSHEMBE Yes?
CHARLIE I wanted to tell you, before I left, how sorry I am about—about everything.
TSHEMBE (With cool disinterest as he moves past) Thank you.
CHARLIE Matoseh—(TSHEMBE waits) I may not see you again.
TSHEMBE Goodbye, Mr. Morris.
(He starts in)
CHARLIE I’d like to look you up in London.
TSHEMBE (Turning) Still at it? I should think the past few days would have provided enough local color for your book.
CHARLIE My book—?
TSHEMBE You do plan to write a book about us, don’t you, Mr. Morris?
CHARLIE No. No … a long time ago I had planned to, but …
TSHEMBE Oh, but you must! By all means! The whole world is waiting to hear about the martyred Reverend and this temple in the wasteland that is Africa.
CHARLIE Tshembe—
TSHEMBE As a matter of fact, I will help you. I have a suggestion for the title—“Behind the Color Curtain: Confession of the Week.” (Lifting his hands as if he can already see the words in print) “The Story of a Mission: how it tried to lift the benighted black from his native sloth and indolence—and how it was rewarded.” Tell them, Mr. Morris. Tell them so that when your readers find out it is American planes Zatembe is flying with American bombs for our villages … they can relax with assurance that their moral obligation to humanity is being fulfilled!
CHARLIE Are you quite finished, Matoseh?
TSHEMBE Except for the dedication. Americans excel in dedications—“To brotherhood, to the building of bridges!” Now go, sir, write your book! The whole damned world is waiting!
(He starts in)
CHARLIE Thank you. Thank you, I will try—Bwana!
TSHEMBE (Turns) What the hell is that supposed to mean?
CHARLIE It means get off my back, you hypocrite! What makes you so holy? Listen, a week ago—(The sound of a helicopter is heard approaching overhead)—you gave me a song and dance about the white intellectual “plumbing” your depths. Well, stop presuming on mine! Stop writing my book. Stop telling me which side to come out on because it’s so much easier to fill your eyes with me than to look at yourself. Where are you running, man? Back to Europe? To watch the action on your telly? (A beat. An appeal) Tshembe, we do what we can. We’re on the same side. (TSHEMBE pointedly looks up and smiles ironically at the chopper, which is now directly overhead. CHARLIE shouts over the din) I didn’t put those things up there! I’m me—Charlie Morris—not “the White Man”!
TSHEMBE (Cupping his ear) I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, I cannot hear you …
CHARLIE (As the chopper recedes somewhat) Then try, Matoseh. Because I’ve heard you.
(A beat. CHARLIE holds out his hand. TSHEMBE studies him and, at last, takes it. Then: as the chopper circles back again, the African lifts their clasped hands towards the sky)
TSHEMBE What does it prove, Charlie? What will it solve?
(Abruptly letting go, he turns and crosses into the Mission. Behind him the American stands alone confronting the chopper’s roar before he slowly turns and exits)
ACT TWO
SCENE 8
Immediately following. MADAME sits in the parlor as before; TSHEMBE sits cross-legged at her feet, his head resting back gently against her.
TSHEMBE YOU will stay on, then?
MADAME At my age, one goes home only to die. I am already home.
TSHEMBE Yes, of course. When you first came here, did you know that you would stay here and die here?
MADAME Yes, I think so. One knows, doesn’t one? When the ship steamed into Bremmer Pool and I saw the African Coast for the first time, I did indeed feel that strange foetal moment when, for some reason or other, we know that our destinies are being marked. (Laughing a little) Doesn’t always turn out like that, of course. But those are the times we remember, so it seems true enough. Torvald was twenty-seven; resplendent in his helmet and a new pair of boots. Steaming down to Africa! Ah, we were something in our circle in that day. “Going out to Africa,” people would say, “Ahhhh, ahhhh …” and then wonder if they should give us a coin or two. (Gentle reflective laughs punctuate all of these allusions) And then, there we were: Torvald and me, a cello and forty crates of hymnals. I was twenty-eight, had two pairs of culottes made of fine Egyptian linen, shots for malaria and a helmet of my own—and what else might one need for any adversity in life!?
TSHEMBE What was he like then, Madame?
MADAME It is not all legend. He was a good man, Tshembe, in many ways. He did some amazing things.
TSHEMBE (He rises abruptly and crosses away) Then why did he let my mother die like that?
MADAME Because, my child, no man can be more than the man he is. He was a White Man in Darkest Africa—not God, but doing God’s work—and to him it was clear: the child was the product of an evil act, a sin against God’s order, the natural separation of the races. Its fate was for God to decide. He never forgave me for interfering.
TSHEMBE I do not think most missionaries’ wives would have delivered that child …
MADAME He never spoke of it again after that night—nor, as you know, acknowledged the existence of Eric. (She sits forward rigidly) Well, he couldn’t give in, don’t you see, Tshembe? He was helpless. Eric was the living denial of everything he stood for: the testament to three centuries of rape and self-acquittal. He wanted the child dead; wanted your mother to die! (She closes her eyes) Do you—hate us terribly, Tshembe?
TSHEMBE (Gently, crossing behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders) Madame, I have seen your mountains. Europe—in spite of all her crimes—has been a great and glorious star in the night. Other stars shone before it—and will again with it. (Lightly, smiling at his own imagery) The heavens, as you taught me, are broad and can afford a galaxy.
MADAME And what of your mountains, Tshembe? Your beautiful hills. What will you do now?
TSHEMBE What will I do? Madame, I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to become an expert at diapering my son … to sit in Hyde Park with a faded volume of Shakespeare and come home to a dinner of fried bananas with kidney pie and—(He is fighting the tears now as a terrible anguish rises within him)—turn the phonograph up loud, loud, until the congo drums throb with unbearable sweetness—and then hold my wife in my arms and bury my face in her hair and hear no more cries in the night except those of my boy because he is cold or hungry or terribly wet. (He hesitates) I’d like—I’d like my brothers with me. Eric—and Abioseh. Do you remember when we were boys, Abioseh and I? How many times we … (He cannot go on) I want to go home. It seems your mountains have become mine, Madame.
MADAME Have they, Tshembe?
TSHEMBE I think so. I thought so. I no longer know. I am one man, Madame. Whether I go or stay, I cannot break open the prison doors for Kumalo. I cannot bring Peter back. I cannot … (He breaks off) I am lying, Madame. To myself. And to you. I know what I must do …
MADAME Then do it, Tshembe.
TSHEMBE (Desperately) But when I think of … (He lowers his head to touch the top of hers) Help me, Madame.
MADAME You have forgotten your geometry if you are despairing, Tshembe. (She strains forward and rises) I once taught you that a line goes on into infinity unless it is bisected. Our country needs
warriors, Tshembe Matoseh. Africa needs warriors. Like your father.
TSHEMBE (Staring at her) You knew about my father …
MADAME Warriors, Tshembe. Now more than ever. Goodbye, child. Now leave me with my husband.
(She sits, worn out by the effort. TSHEMBE observes and absorbs)
TSHEMBE Good night, Madame.
(He turns on his heel as only very resolute men can do and exits)
MADAME (Reaching out and ending the light of one of the candles at the bier) Well, now … the darkness will do for this hour, will it not?
(She settles back, both hands on her cane, to keep the vigil and await some final episode. As the lights dim, ABIOSEH enters the compound and starts in)
Dimout
ACT TWO
SCENE 9
In the darkness—the laughter of a hyena and the sounds of night as in the Prologue.
It is not long after. The Mission is bathed in moonlight. Ceiling lanterns flicker in the parlor, where MADAME sits as before. ABIOSEH stands by the coffin.
ABIOSEH Madame, your husband was an extraordinary human being, above race, above all sense of self. I know he would have approved of what I did. (MADAME says nothing) There was no other way to handle the terror. Madame, don’t you agree? (MADAME says nothing. He crosses down and sits on the veranda edge) Well, it will be over for good now. If men choose violence they will be met by violence. Am I right, Madame? (MADAME says nothing) Those who live by the sword … (He suddenly pauses, regarding the night) What a marvelous light. How beautiful this day has been. How beautiful the night … Ah, but how I wish you could have seen the sunset! That was always your favorite time, was it not, Madame? Today it looked as if the edge of the earth was melting. God was raining down glory.
MADAME Glory, Abioseh?
ABIOSEH (The irony is lost on the man wrapt in his own reflections) Do you remember the stories you used to tell us to explain the sunset? (Smiling with warm remembrance) I believed those stories with all my heart, Madame. But not Tshembe. No, not Tshembe. (TSHEMBE enters unseen, wearing the robe his father had last worn to the Mission, and walks slowly to MADAME) My brother wouldn’t have it that the sun was eaten by a giant who rose out of the ocean. Remember? (TSHEMBE places his hand on MADAME’s shoulder and she covers it with hers, but says nothing) He had to know exactly what happened to the sun when it went down, and where it went. He always—
(Sensing his brother’s presence, ABIOSEH looks up, regards TSHEMBE for a moment and then, with fateful premonition, begins to back away as TSHEMBE advances. ABIOSEH turns. WARRIORS appear over the rise and at the edges of the stage, rifles in hand. Among them is ERIC—who blocks the way.
As ABIOSEH turns back to him, TSHEMBE takes out the pistol he has been concealing in his robe and considers it, not so much seeking courage as thoughtfully, then levels it. For a moment the two brothers stand facing each other, aware of all the universal implications of the act; the one pulls the trigger, the other falls, and with a last effort at control TSHEMBE crosses to the body, kneels and gently closes ABIOSEH’s eyes.
In the same moment, shouts and shots are heard offstage. A crouching SOLDIER rushes past, shooting as he goes—the WARRIORS open fire and, caught in the crossfire, MADAME staggers erect, hit. TSHEMBE whirls and races to catch her as ERIC throws a grenade into the Mission. There is an explosion, the WARRIORS run off—and TSHEMBE stands alone, MADAME in his arms. As flames envelop the Mission, he sinks to the ground, gently sets her body beside that of his brother and, in his anguish, throws back his head and emits an animal-like cry of grief as—in a pool of light facing him,—the WOMAN appears)
Curtain
POSTSCRIPT
It is one measure of Les Blancs’ success that on opening night no less than six reviewers found it pertinent to discuss not simply the play, but the state of mind of the audience. An audience so personally involved, so visibly affected that if one closed one’s eyes one might have imagined that this was not the Broadway of the seventies—the Broadway of the lethargic listeners—but the impassioned theater of the thirties. Or perhaps the Abbey Theatre of Sean O’Casey. In The Village Voice, critic Arthur Sainer described the scene:
Much feeling at the Longacre Sunday night.… A sense of emotional investment throughout the audience—black, white audience—partly a celebration of the spirit of the playwright, partly a response to the nature of the material. Much cheering … some scattered heckling, and a disturbance at the back of the house … At best, an audience feeling something at stake.… [in a play] that manages to speak where the century is discovering it lives.*
On the radio, Alvin Klein, bored by what was to him “pervading dullness and didacticism” of the play, pondered an audience that “seemed to be divided into two different clapping camps,” while Rex Reed in The Sunday News was more direct:
The opening night audience responded violently. Every time the whites were insulted on stage, the blacks applauded. When Mr. Mitchell finally called Mr. Jones a hypocrite, the whites applauded. One black militant was led from the theatre screaming.… Les Blancs is, if you’ll forgive me, too black and white.
In this context, Richard Watts in the New York Post considered that “it must surely be a sign of the author’s fairness” that the audience seemed “equally divided” in its charged responses to what was happening on stage, while Lee Silver in the Daily News congratulated the producer for his “courage,” compared the playwright to “the great Bernard Shaw,” and described Les Blancs as “a most absorbing drama” that “had last night’s audience cheering.… ”
It remained, however, for a black reviewer, Clayton Riley, The New York Times’ sometime critic of black theater, to link the reactions of the crowd unabashedly to his own, analyzing, in somewhat different terms, the “camps” to which the others had referred. To Riley, Les Blancs was not just “a piece of theater” but an event that had become for him:
… an incredibly moving experience. Or, perhaps, an extended moment in one’s life not easily forgotten.… in a commercial theatre that takes such pains to protect us from knowing who and what and where we are in 20th-century America.…
“Moving” in that fashion. In such a way as to polarize an opening night audience into separate camps, not so much camps of color, of Black and White, although that, too, was part of it. The play divides people into sectors inhabited on the one hand by those who recognize clearly that a struggle exists in the world today that is about the liberation of oppressed peoples, a struggle to be supported at all costs. In the other camp live those who still accept as real the soothing mythology that oppression can be dealt with reasonably—particularly by Black people—if Blacks will just bear in mind the value of polite, calm and continuing use of the democratic process.
… Somewhere, past performance, staging and written speech, resides that brilliant, anguished consciousness of Lorraine Hansberry, at work in the long nights of troubled times, struggling to make sense out of an insane situation, aware—way ahead of the rest of us—that there is no compromise with evil, there is only the fight for decency. If even Uncle Sam must die toward that end, Les Blancs implies, then send him to the wall.
If what Riley surmised was true, then it might help to explain why the reactions of many tended to extremes:
John Simon in New York:
… the result is unmitigated disaster. Les Blancs (the very French title in what is clearly a British African colony testifies to the utter confusion) is not only the worst new play on Broadway, of an amateurishness and crudity unrelieved by its sophomoric stabs at wit, it is also, more detestably, a play finished—or finished off—by white liberals that does its utmost to justify the slaughter of whites by blacks.… It is a malodorous, unenlightening mess.
Walter Kerr in The New York Times:
I urge you to go to see Lorraine Hansberry’s … ranging, quick-witted, ruefully savage examination of the state of the African mind today.… Virtually all of Les Blancs is there on the stage, vivid, stinging, intel
lectually alive, and what is there is mature work, ready to stand without apology alongside the completed work of our best craftsmen. The language in particular is so unmistakably stage language that … it achieves an internal pressure, a demand that you listen to it, that is quite rare on our stages today.
Indeed, to read the reviews that week was almost to come away with the feeling that the critics had attended different plays—or, in any event, had come out marching to the sound of quite different (Congo) drummers. And this was the more striking in view of their virtually unanimous acclaim for the performances, the direction and production.* The issue was the play.
Emory Lewis in The Record:
The heart of the matter is that Miss Hansberry is a major U.S. writer, in the grand tradition. The most penetrating, passionate and liberating of all her glorious works, it is also a compassionate exploration in depth of the making of a black revolutionary.… She shows us not a mass stereotype, but a gallery of … varied, profoundly complicated, and engrossing persons. It is easily the best play of the season.
Martin Gottfried in Women’s Wear Daily:
There is no story to the play, really … a didactic play, existing for its ideas rather than its theatre. Its characters are stereotypes, created as points of view rather than as people, and its language heavy with information.… It is still unfinished because, as a work for the theatre, it was mistakenly begun.
Lee Silver in the Daily News:
Les Blancs depends upon interesting characters that talk to each other and who move you one way or another because of what they are, what they have to say and what they become.… Miss Hansberry, like the great Bernard Shaw, knew how to make provocative characters become real people on stage … representing a variety of viewpoints on a subject of overriding importance.… A drama of conflicting ideas salted with some action, but never so concerned about action in itself as to interfere with the steady development of character and story to its inevitable explosive conclusion.
Les Blancs Page 13