The short walk home generally sobers him up, but during the past weeks these few dozen steps have become inexplicably difficult for this thirty-year-old man. Once upon a time he would close the door behind him and pull his jacket tight before setting forth with confidence. The harsh late-afternoon light, and the noise from the street, usually put the edge back into his mind, but these days he often wanders aimlessly, consumed with a fear that tonight, in front of hundreds of strangers, he might lose his way. The few dozen steps have multiplied, and he frequently discovers himself in unfamiliar streets gripped with a sudden panic that he might now be late for his onstage appointment. It sometimes occurs to him that he should walk directly to the theater, but he knows that his wife would not like this. She always insists that he clean up and change out of his relaxing clothes before making his appearance at the stage door, and he does not like to argue. But people notice him walking, with a vertical plume of smoke climbing from his cigarette up toward the sky. They can see that these days his few dozen steps are taking him all over the neighborhood, but nobody feels free to talk to him, not even the pushcart man who dusts his fruit with an old brush and each day is tempted to offer an overripe peach or a bruised apple to the weary-looking Negro. When he returns home, Mother looks the other way and he understands that once again he has failed her.
He finds it difficult to achieve any peace in this new house, but he does not complain to Mother. When troubled he simply pulls on his coat and picks up his hat and he walks the twenty paces to Metheney’s and sits by himself. In Dahomey is doing well, and he and George continue to collaborate with Mr. Jesse Shipp, with whom they are working hard to sharpen up every aspect of the show. Theirs is the first all-Negro production on Broadway—real Broadway—and everybody is talking about it. Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan are jealous, but even they are talking. Everybody is talking. Just thirty years of age and he is starring in a musical show on Broadway. What more could he want?
Only this morning, he and George, together with Mr. Shipp, made some minor changes to the script of In Dahomey. The two stars remembered everything they could from the time when, back in San Francisco, they were encouraged to impersonate Africans. They talked endlessly to Mr. Jesse Shipp about their memories of these Africans, about how they walked and how they talked, and Mr. Shipp made notes and promised to add these new elements to his script. In Dahomey, starring Williams and Walker. Two real coons. Beyond the corner of Market Street. Beyond the Midway Plaisance. Beyond Cripple Creek. Married men in New York City, nurturing their dreams, but Bert longed to ask George about his dreams for he wondered if his partner shared his own obsession with journeying. He did once ask George if he had ever been on a ship and George simply laughed and poured them both another drink. They were on a Pacific Union train at the time, and through the window they could both see a horizon that was ragged with low mountains. “A ship?” exclaimed George. “A colored man like me don’t need no ship when I’ve got this whole wide country to roam free in.” But this was before gold-toothed George was beaten by the rabble, and thereafter began to noisily proclaim what they both already knew to be true, that America wasn’t so wide and free after all. For a colored man, that is.
They were hunting Negroes like you might pursue wild game, running up the avenues from south to north with sticks and bottles in their hands. It was merely another of those New York City nights when one small incident in a tavern or saloon sparked a response out of all proportion to the original event. Meanwhile, Bert remained hidden in his dressing room, the theater manager having barred the doors and turned off all the lights in the building. “You’ll be safe in here, Mr. Williams,” he said. “Shouldn’t be any problems for you in here.” And so Mr. Williams remained hidden inside the theater, and he was forced to listen to the ugly cacophony of the mob breaking glass and colored bones all over the city. George had already left the building, refusing to exercise any caution, scornful of such behavior. George was on a streetcar that was halfway up Sixth Avenue when three men recognized his immodest clothes, and then his well-groomed face, and they dragged the grinning nigger from the vehicle. “Walker!” The name began to be chanted by the hoodlums. “Walker!” “Walker!” Helpless to protect him, a half dozen horrified coloreds stood forlornly in the street and looked on, and then they parted like the Red Sea, forming an unfortunate path along which more ruffians were able to funnel their way toward the object of their hatred. “Walker!” They beat him with fierce blows until he fell over and bundled himself into a small ball, tucking his head down into his chest and protecting it on both sides with his folded arms.
George tries to open his eyes. One real coon. They have broken something, that much he is sure of, for he can feel that things are no longer in line. He will have to wait for help, but then again he is not in any hurry. He is just trying to get to his room at Marshall’s. Nothing wrong with a colored man enjoying some relaxation after a hard night’s work on Broadway. But tonight his fellow white citizens are angry, and although they have now abandoned him he can still hear their discordant and unruly clamor. And a half dozen blocks to the south, Bert hides in his dressing room with the lights out, his makeup already removed, his street clothes hanging neatly from his broad shoulders, ready to leave whenever America is ready to receive him. Ready to make his entrance without his makeup. But in the meantime he will wait until the theater manager informs him that his audience is ready for him. Then, and only then, will he be able to leave his dressing room.
The man from Dahomey stands in front of him and stares in disbelief. He looks at the mottled animal skin that is draped over Bert’s shoulder. He looks at the Indian axe that is tucked into Bert’s waistband, and at the headdress fashioned out of old leaves and pieces of twisted twig, which makes it appear as though Bert is wearing a crown of thorns. The man from Dahomey looks at the Chinese lettering that has been painted onto Bert’s face, and at the small Swiss bells that are strung together on a fraying piece of string and tied loosely around his ankles, but he says nothing to the American man about this costume. So this is America standing tall and proud before him. It never crosses his mind that this bizarre-looking man could possibly be representing Africa, let alone Dahomey, and against his better judgment the African begins to feel sorry for Bert. The man from Dahomey stands in front of Bert and stares in disbelief at this pitiful apparition and he worries about this strange land called America.
And then one morning Bert and George and the six others who are paid to dress in animal skins gather together, for the manager of the exposition wishes to address them. The gray-bearded man steps from his office and tucks his fingers into the pockets of his vest. Presumably they are now to hand back the skins and bells and axes, for after all it has been clearly understood that their engagement was to be temporary. It was to last until the Africans completed their journey from Dahomey and reached California, and now the Africans are here, and the prospect of unemployment is once again staring these eight young men in the face. The manager of the exposition begins to speak. They have done well and they are popular, but the problem is that the newly arrived savages don’t appear to be acclimating to the weather, or to the food, or to the customs. It is going to be too difficult to effectively season them and so they will soon be sent back to where they came from. Would these eight young impersonators of the dark continent be able to stay on for a few more weeks? As he makes his request he smiles and tugs at his vest, as though particularly pleased with himself.
. . .
He watches the Africans gather up their belongings and make ready to leave. There are a dozen of them, all men except two young women. He notices that they all walk slowly on bare, noiseless feet, and they seldom lift their eyes, as though stricken with some form of malady. The man who stood before him is clearly their leader, for they look to this man for guidance yet none among them ever approach him too closely. Evidently, they are tired, and Bert can only imagine how torturous their journey from Africa must have been. He too has suffered th
e tedium of a journey on a ship, but he understands that his own passage does not compare to the difficulties that these Africans must have endured. And then to finally arrive in San Francisco, only to discover that they are not wanted, and now they are being dismissed without payment, and they face the painful prospect of a long passage back to West Africa. No wonder they move slowly and without enthusiasm. Their lives have been arrested, and now they must return home empty-handed. And with how many promises broken? Nineteen-year-old Bert stands barefoot with a mottled animal skin draped over one shoulder, and he watches the melancholy men and women of Dahomey prepare for their departure.
IN DAHOMEY
1903
Jesse A. Shipp (1869–1934), book
Will Marion Cook (1869–1944), music
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872–1906), lyrics
A Negro Musical Comedy
PROLOGUE
Time: Three months before beginning of play
Place: Dahomey
CHARACTERS
Je-Je, a Caboceer CHARLES MOORE
Menuki, messenger of the king WM. ELKINS
Moses Lightfoot, agent of Dahomey Colonization Society W. BARKER
Shylock Homestead, called “Shy” by his friends BERT A. WILLIAMS
Rareback Pinkerton, Shy’s personal friend and advisor GEO. A. WALKER
Cicero Lightfoot, President of a Colonization Society PETE HAMPTON
Dr. Straight … in name only, street fakir FRED DOUGLAS
George Reeder, proprietor of an intelligence office ALEX ROGERS
Henry Stampfield, letter carrier, with an argument against immigration WALTER RICHARDSON
Me Sing, a Chinese cook GEO. CATLIN
Hustling Charley, promoter of Get-the-Coin Syndicate J. A. SHIPP
Leather, a bootblack RICHARD CONNORS
Officer Still J. LEUBRIE HILL
White Wash Man GREEN TAPLEY
Messenger Rush, but not often THEODORE PANKEY
Pansy, daughter of Cecilia Lightfoot, in love with Leather ABBIE MITCHELL
Cecilia Lightfoot, Cicero’s wife MRS. HATTIE MCINTOSH
Mrs. Stringer, dealer in forsaken Patterns, also editor of fashion notes in Beanville Agitator MRS. LOTTIE WILLIAMS
Rosetta Lightfoot, a troublesome young thing Colonists, Natives, etc. ADA OVERTON WALKER
ACT I
SCENE I
(Public Square with a house doorway. Above the door is a sign. “Intelligence Office.” A crowd is assembled around a medicine show pitchman. Applause at rise of curtain. A banjo player acts as interlocutor as Tambo and Bones tell one or two jokes. The banjoist sings a song. Dr. Straight, the pitchman, addresses the crowd.)
DR. STRAIGHT After listening to great attempts at beautiful strains of melodious music and pyrotechnical display of humorous humorosities, quintessence of brevity rather than prolix verbosity will best accomplish the purpose for which I appear here this evening. Now that I’ve made everything so plain that even a child can understand, I’ll proceed with business. I hold in my hand a preparation made from roots, herbs, barks, leaf grasses, cereals, vegetables, fruits, and chemicals warranted, by myself, to do all that I claim, even more. I’m not here to sell this article but simply to advertise the greatest boon that mankind has ever known. I will forfeit one thousand dollars to—hold up the money so that they can see it (Attendants hold up a large sack marked $1000)— or I will take the same amount from any dark-skin son or daughter of that genius Africanus that I cannot immediately transform into an Apollo or Cleopatra with a hirsute appendage worthy of a Greek goddess.
VOICE (interrupting) Look here, Mr. Medicine Man, if you ’specs to sell any of dem bottles of whatever you’ve got there to anybody in this crowd, you’d better bring your language down to the limitations of a universal understanding. I’ve been standin’ here ten minutes trying to figger out what you’re talkin’ about and I tell you as the old maxim says, “Patience ceases to be virtuous.”
DR. STRAIGHT Your patience shall be rewarded. I’ll come to the point at once. This compound known as Straightaline is the greatest hair tonic on earth. What will Straightaline do? Why, it cures dandruff, tetter itch, and all scalp diseases at once and forever. It makes hair grow on baldheaded babies. It makes curly hair straight as a stick in from one to ten days. Straightaline straightens kinky hair in from ten to thirty days and most wonderful of all, Straightaline straightens knappy or knotty hair.
(He hesitates.)
VOICE Well?
DR. STRAIGHT In three days.
VOICE I’ll take a bottle of dat.
DR. STRAIGHT Wait, wait, wait, this is not all. I have another preparation, Oblicuticus, “Obl”—in this case, being an abbreviation of the word “obliterate.” “Cuti”—taken from the word “cuticle,” the outer skin—and “cuss” is what everybody does when the desired results are not obtained, but there is no such word as “fail.” This wonderful face bleach removes the outer skin and leaves in its place a peachlike complexion that can’t be duplicated—even by peaches. Changing black to white and vice versa. I am going to spend only one day in your city, but I am going to convince you by exhibiting a living evidence of my assertions that these two grand preparations, Straightaline and Oblicuticus, are the most wonderful discovery of modern times. (Attendant stands up—he is possibly made up to be half white and half black.) This young man is a martyr to science. Here you have the work of nature. Here the work of art. Here is the kinky hair here (stage business with hair and skin color). The long, silky straight hair, here the bronze of nature, here the peachlike complexion. Remember, I leave here tomorrow for Gatorville, Florida.
VOICES Give me a bottle, give me a bottle.
DR. STRAIGHT Wait a minute—I’m not here to sell, I’m only advertising these two grand articles, Straight— aline and Oblicuticus, and after dispensing with a few coins of the realm, if you will accompany me to Skinners, I will place a few bottles of Straightaline and Oblicuticus at your disposal. Mind you, I’m not here to sell but to advertise. I’m not here to make money, but to give it away. (He throws coins and exits. A quartet—the Barbers Society of Philosophical Research—enters and sings “Annie Laurie.”)
Strangely enough, the first night that he actually slept in the house on Seventh Avenue, he was sure that he was in Africa. He dreamt of natives with bare feet and painted faces who leapt wildly in frenzied dances. Of oppressive heat, and strange bloodcurdling cries, of jabbering tongues and gatherings of crazed and perspiring people, all of whom seemed intent upon doing his person harm. This was his dream of Africa. There were no gentlemen in fine tailcoats, or wily businessmen, or property deals to be made. No kings, no queens, no princes, no aristocracy, just savages determined to punish him, and he abruptly opened his eyes and realized that he was covered in a heavy sweat. For a moment he had no idea of where he was, and he was unable to break clear of the terror of the dream. Mother was asleep, the moon spilling onto her face through a small gap in the floral drapes, but where was he? And then slowly his mind began to clear, and he heard traffic clipping by on the thoroughfare beneath the window. Seventh Avenue just above 135th Street. Harlem. As close to Africa as one can be in the United States of America, but his dreams were an embarrassment that he knew he must never admit to carrying in his head. He lay in bed in his home, his first real home outside his parents’ house, and he understood that he was now a part of his wife’s world. She, whose kisses tasted like cherries, had now taken control of a large part of his life, but he still possessed freedom in his work, and in his dreams, and although he felt affection for her he knew that Mother had already accepted that some things between this husband and wife would always remain a neatly executed step or two beyond her authority.
And then later, after the special gala performance of In Dahomey, and with the boisterous applause of the audience still buzzing in his head, and the syncopated frenzy of the orchestra still ringing in his ears, he sits alone in his dressing room and begins to remove the face. With each circ
ular movement of the coarse towel more of the character falls away, revealing the true man underneath. He waits until he hears his fellow cast members tumble out of the theater in a state of high excitement and then he savors the silence. Soon heavy footsteps begin to echo along the corridor outside his dressing room, and there is a light knocking at his door. The stage manager enters without waiting for a reply, and he is surprised to find Bert still present and sitting all alone, naked without makeup. Bert observes a flicker of uncertainty register on the man’s face, and he notices that the befuddled stage manager is suddenly unsure how to address the dignified star of the show. However, Mr. Williams makes it clear that there is no need for the man to say anything, for he raises a hand and smiles and lets him know that he will be leaving momentarily. After the stage manager departs, Bert continues to sit for a while, and then he stands and slowly opens the dressing room door. He edges his way past the props that line the narrow corridor before stepping out onto the noisy commotion of Forty-fifth Street. There is nobody by the stage door. His fellow players have not waited for him, but why would they? He feels sure that Mother would have reminded them that impromptu cast parties and such foolishness are not to Mr. Williams’s liking, and so he begins the slow walk up Broadway, away from the lights, his feet hurting after the excesses of cakewalking, and shuffling around, and generally playing the fool with George. He walks slowly, with head erect and with an evenness of pace, through this most surprising of cities, which, even at this late hour, is still humming with traffic and noise and seemingly reluctant to either sleep or settle down. At the corner of Fifty-third Street he briefly stops and wonders whether he ought to at least show his face at Marshall’s, but he understands that an appearance would probably bemuse, rather than please, his colleagues, and so he decides to walk four or five more blocks and then hail a ride and encourage the driver to trip through the park so that he might keep nature close by himself.
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