Les Blancs

by Lorraine Hansberry

  Presently, the CHILDREN pause, as instinctively still as their quarry. One of them rises with a rock in hand and lets it fly; then, as one, the CHILDREN rise and run screaming to the animal which has been successfully stoned, and violently fall to fighting over it. They really fight one another; there is nothing to suggest the mere games of children. And, moreover, those who are strongest triumph.

  Among the more savage of the group is a little girl who is wiry and tough and skillful in the fighting. She achieves her share as do one or two of the others, while the remaining children glower and whimper like unfed puppies watching them consume the raw meat; those who are most frail or slow are also, noticeably, the thinnest.

  At the sound of their noise the old man is roused and sits up rubbing his mouth and his beard and his eyes. He shifts his position to see out the cave. He does this while the CHILDREN are still actively fighting. He cannot altogether make out what they are fighting about. That is, he cannot see that they eat it.

  HERMIT (Dryly but loudly)

  Well, I see you haven’t changed, to say the least. Animals! Down unto the fourth and fifth generation of you, that’s what.

  (Grumbling)

  Well, what did I expect? What, indeed, did I expect?

  (The CHILDREN freeze in astonishment at the sound of his voice.

  He feels gingerly about for a foothold, shifting bundle and stick, and starts down from the rocks—which were easier ascended, even in the dark, than descended at his age.

  At the first move, one of the boys stoops, apprehensively, for a rock. The others are taut—ready for flight)

  Why the devil don’t you give an elderly gentleman assistance? I see that your manners haven’t changed either. Well, no matter: the only thing you ever did with manners was hide your greater crimes. How very, very significant, how significant indeed, that the very first thing I should see upon my return is the sight of little hooligans abusing a creature of nature! With the blessings of your elders, I am sure, I am sure!

  (He halts and gestures for assistance to the closest youngster)

  You—I am talking to you, my little open-mouthed friend—

  (The CHILDREN merely continue to stare. He shakes his stick)

  Ah, you don’t like that, do you!

  (He gives a surprisingly sprightly jump, for his years, and clears the incline neatly—but then totters a second for balance)

  There we are! What do you think of that!

  (Breathing heavily from the exertion)

  And now if you undisciplined little monsters will be kind enough to give me directions to the city, I shall make myself absent from your admirable company.

  (They stare)

  You there—with the eyeballs! Which way to the city?

  (Holding the courtesy deliberately)

  Please. I should like with your cooperation to reach some outpost of, if you will forgive the reference, “civilization” by nightfall. What is the nearest town? I no longer recall these points, apparently, and have got myself utterly lost …

  (The CHILDREN stand fixed)

  Do you hear?

  (He takes a half-step toward one, who immediately draws back)

  What you need, my little zombie, is a well-placed and repetitive touch of the cane! But I suppose that anything as admirable as that is still forbidden?

  (Looking around at all of them)

  Well, close your mouths and go away, little uglies, if you won’t be helpful. I am sure your doting parents are anxious for you—for some ungodly reason. Why are you all got up like that anyway? Is it Halloween? Dear Lord, don’t tell me I’ve come back just in time for that! Well, I wonder then if you might interrupt your mute joke long enough to tell an old man just one thing. If only I might persuade you quite what it would mean to me … You see, I should very much like to know—

  (Deep pause)

  What time it is. You think that’s silly, don’t you; yes, I rather thought you would. That a chap might go off and hide himself in the woods for twenty years and then come out and ask, “What time is it?”

  (He laughs)

  But, you see, one of the reasons I left is because I could no longer stand the dominion of time in the lives of men and the things that they did with it and to it and, indeed, that they let it do to them. And so, to escape time, I threw my watch away. I even made a ceremony of it. I was on a train over a bridge … and I held it out the door and dropped it. Quite like—

  (He gestures, remembering)

  —this. But do you know the very first thing I absolutely had a compulsion to know once I got into the forest? I wanted to know what time it was. Clearly I had no appointments to keep—but I longed to know the hour of the day! There is, of course, no such thing as an hour, it is merely something that men have labeled so—but I longed to have that label at my command again. I never did achieve that. Ultimately I gave up seconds, minutes and hours, too … Ah, but I kept up with days! I made a rock calendar at once. It was a problem too: the wild animals would knock over the rocks. Finally, I gave up and made a game—a game, ha!—of keeping up with the days in my head. It got to be a matter of rejoicing that the seasons came when I knew they would.

  (Looking down)

  Or, at least, that’s how it was for the first fifteen years. Because, naturally, I lost track. I accumulated a backlog of slipped days which, apparently, ran into months because one year, quite suddenly, it began to snow when I expected the trees to bud. Somewhere I had mislaid a warm autumn for a chilly spring. I almost died that year; I had lost a season.

  (Boastfully, for his new-found audience)

  Consequently, among other things, I expect that I must be the first adult you have ever met who did not know his age. I was fifty-eight when I went into the woods. And now I am either seventy-eight or perhaps more than eighty years old. That is why I have come out of the woods. I am afraid men invent timepieces, they do not invent time. We may give time its dimensions and meaning, we may make it worthless or important or absurd or crucial. But ultimately I am afraid it has a value of its own. It is time for me to die. And I have come out to see what men have been doing. And now that I am back, more than anything else just now, you see, I should very much like to know—what time it is.

  (The CHILDREN stare)

  Ahh …

  (Stiffening and shaking his finger at them)

  But you must not for one second take that to mean that I regret my hermitage or do in any wise whatsoever return repentant to the society of men. I return in comtempt!

  (More quietly)

  And, if one must tell everything—curiosity. Not love! Not once, not once in all those years did I long for human company. Not once!

  (He flicks his fingers at them in sweeping gesture, settles himself on the ground and spreads a small cloth)

  Get along, then; go ahead: shoo! I am going to have my breakfast and I prefer privacy.

  (He first looks to the setting-out of his food and then up again to see them still standing, apparently transfixed)

  I am quite serious about it and will become stern with you any moment now! The diversion is OVER! Toddle along to your—

  (Nastily)

  —mummies and daddies.

  (They do not move)

  Do you not understand the language merely because it is literately spoken? I don’t wonder—recalling the level of study. Shall I employ sign signals?

  (Gesturing impromptu hand signals)

  GO A—WAY! Andale! SCRAM!

  (They do not move, and he is angry)

  All right. But you might as well know that you do not frighten me. I shall eat my breakfast and be content whether you stay or go. And when you recover your tongues, I will accept your directions. I must confess I do not remember this plain at all. I could have sworn that the forest continued for many miles more. But then my memory has to cover a long span of time. You little folk are the very first human souls that I have seen in twenty odd years. Well, what do you think of that!

  (He points to the w
oods, roaring proudly)

  I’ve been in there, in the forest: for twenty-odd years! Deep, deep in the forest. I am a hermit!

  (Showing off, stroking his beard)

  What do you think of that? Just like in books!

  (To another child)

  What is your name? You look like a pupil of mine. But, I suppose he would be a little older by now. I am Charles Lewis Lawson. Professor Charles Lewis Lawson. I was an English teacher.

  (He lifts out a handful of food from his bundle—begins to place it on his cloth: as swiftly the CHILDREN throw themselves upon him and the scraps of food. In the scramble he is knocked over. Those who get some wolf it down, and the old man gets himself aright in time to see one of them gulp down the last morsel. He reaches out tentatively to the child as if, in outrage, to recover it, but the child gnashes his teeth—like a cur. Others pick up his bundle and empty it and paw about in the articles in a cruelly savage search for more food. The old man turns from one to the other frantically)

  Animals! … Animals! … I’m an old man! Don’t you know anything!

  (The CHILDREN fall back a short distance and now lounge about, still watching him)

  Oh, all that I have missed, all that I have undoubtedly missed!—(Bitterly)

  —in the society of men!

  (He gathers up his things angrily)

  Well, why don’t you laugh? Go ahead. Go ahead. Go ahead! It is a great game to beat up an old man and take his food from him, is it not?

  (In a curious rage about it)

  I can see that nothing at all has changed. Damn you! And damn your fathers!

  (He sinks down and pouts rather like a child himself)

  Why did I come out; why, why, why …!

  (The CHILDREN sit and watch him and do not move. Then, presently)

  Well, are you all still with me? You must be looking for your grandfather. Or Santa Claus. Well, I am neither!

  (He gathers up his things and stamps off right; the CHILDREN sink down where they are and freeze as the lights come down—and then up again. The old man comes on from left, having gone in a circle on the plain. The CHILDREN are stretched out where he left them, asleep. They rouse)

  Oh, there you are. I was hoping I would find you again. Certainly haven’t been able to find anyone else. Just this interminable plain. Now, look here: I must have directions to the city. You must end this little joke of yours and talk to me. I will admit it: I am impressed that you can hold your tongues so long. Well, I will have to stay with you until you tire of it. Or, until your parents come.

  (He is mopping his brow and smiling at them. They look back at him and say nothing. He looks at each one separately)

  Listen, I happen to know that you are not mute, because I heard you screaming before.

  (He neatly arranges a pile of dry twigs, dead leaves, and begins to twirl a flint. He works hard at it and, presently, as the first thin stream of smoke arises, the CHILDREN silently lean forward, fascinated)

  Pretty neat, eh? You get good at it if you stay in the forest long enough. I will tell you the truth though. There was not one time that I ever made a fire like this when I did not fancy myself an Indian scout on television. My word, television! I suppose the Images walk right into the living room by now and have supper with you.

  (Dryly)

  Oh, all that I have undoubtedly missed!

  (Fixing the nearest boy with an exaggerated glare)

  Don’t think that’s funny, eh? What dry parents you must have! The lot of you. Speaking of your parents, where the devil are they? To tell you the truth, I was rather hoping that they might give me a lift. Ah, there we are.

  (He gives a good hard rub at this point, and a small lick of flame rises. The largest of the boys jumps to his feet and shouts)

  BOY

  VAROOM!

  (And simultaneously the CHILDREN hit the dirt, face down, and try to bury their heads under their arms. The old man looks up from the fire)

  HERMIT

  “Bang, bang!” I gotcha! Rat-tat-tat-tat!

  (He wields a “submachine gun.” One of the littler ones raises his head)

  You there, step here, since you are the least dead of the cowboys. I need a bellows and you will do nicely.

  (The child does not move)

  Now listen—come here. Kommen sie hier! Venga! … Well, I don’t know Yiddish.

  (With total exasperation, he goes back to the fire, fixes a string of wild fowl he has caught on a skewer across the flames and then sits back comfortably to wait.

  The little bit of meat sends up its bouquet; the child sniffs and goes closer. The others lift their heads slowly. It is an unfamiliar smell. Then, like beasts of prey, they stealthily shift to stalking positions and start to close in on the old man—who mugs back at them, draws his “six-shooters” and stares them down as in a game)

  Once upon a time there were seven little ugly, unwashed, uncombed and unmannered little children—

  (The CHILDREN throw themselves on his birds and tear them to pieces and devour them raw, precisely as they did his lunch the day before. The old man rises, horrified, his eyes wide, looking from child to child)

  Why … you’re not playing … you are wild!

  (He regards them for a long time and then reaches out abruptly and pulls one of them to him)

  Are you lost children? What has happened to you?

  (He inspects the child’s elbows and kneecaps, which are hard calluses)

  Dear God! Calluses. You really don’t understand a word I am saying, do you?

  (Experimentally, but swiftly, expecting nothing)

  “Mother.” “Mutter.” “Madre.” “Mater.” “Mama.” “Bambino” …

  (He is looking closely at the child and smoothing the hair back from the face so that he can see the eyes for any sign of recognition. The others look on guardedly. The youngster is motionless in his hands)

  No, words don’t mean a thing to you, do they? Dear, dear God … What have I found?

  (With desperate hope that he is wrong)

  Here—

  (He pulls out a pocket knife)

  —lad, what’s this?

  (The boy looks but does not touch. The old man opens and flips it into the earth; then retrieves it and lays it flat on his palm. The boy clutches for it)

  No, not blade first, lad!

  (Closing and pocketing it, he sits back on his heels, stunned, looking around at them)

  You eat raw meat, don’t know fire and are unfamiliar with the simplest implement of civilization. And you are prelingual.

  (He stands up slowly; as if to consult the universe about his impending sense of what has happened)

  What have they done …?

  (Slowly turning about; his voice rising in its own eccentric hysteria, crossing down center to the audience)

  What have you finally done!

  (In a rage, screaming)

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!

  Blackout

  SCENE 2

  Many weeks later. Several rather serviceable lean-tos have been fashioned, and at far right a tiny garden is crudely fenced off. The CHILDREN, who have been combed the least bit, so that it is hardly discernible, sit cross-legged in a semicircle; the Master, in the stance of his old profession, stands in front of them.

  HERMIT

  Before we go any further at all, I must distribute names. I can do that, you see, because in this present situation I am God! and you must have names. Ah, you are wondering “Why—?” Well, it is because it will keep you from having to remember who you really are as you get older. Let’s see, quickly now, you are hereby: John, Thomas, Clarence, Robert, Horace, William. You may be Charlie, and you are henceforth Alexander.

  (To ALEXANDER)

  But may I caution you at the outset to avoid all temptations toward any adjective to follow it.

  (Indicating the little girl)

  And you—you shall be Lily.

  (Gruffly)

  Now, down the list.


  (He holds up items or gestures actions. First he picks up a piece of meat)

  CHILDREN

  Food.

  (The HERMIT holds up the knife)

  CHILDREN

  Knife.

  (The HERMIT holds up a crude earthenware pot)

  CHILDREN

  Pot.

  (The HERMIT gestures with his cheek on his hands, eyes closed)

  CHILDREN

  Sleep.

  (The HERMIT gestures)

  CHILDREN

  Drink.

  (The HERMIT gestures)

  CHILDREN

  Lift.

  (The HERMIT gestures)

  CHILDREN

  Eat.

  (He has not had such a good time for twenty-odd years—though of course, if asked, he’d deny it.

  He speaks fluently to them regardless of their only understanding a handful of words. When he wishes them to do or understand something explicitly, he speaks slowly and with abundant gesture)

  HERMIT

  Very good. So much for today’s academic lessons. Time now for the vocational section. And all I can say is that primitive though my knowledge of technical skills may be—you had better be bloody grateful that I have at least some! In my world, certain men prided themselves on not knowing the things I am attempting to teach you! So, I shall do the best I can, do you hear me?

  (Under his breath)

  And when you learn to understand what the deuce I am talking about most of the time, you will also understand that you have just had a profound apology for ignorance, disguised as a boast. I was indeed a true member of the tribe!

  (Loudly)

  Now let me see … “Ceramics.”