The Roots of African American Drama: An Anthology of Early Plays, 1858-1938 [1 ed.]

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THE ROOTS OF AFRICAN AMERICAN DRAMA

An Anthology of Early Plays, 1858-1938 Edited by Leo Hamalian and James V. Hatch Foreword by George C. Wolfe

The Roots of African American Drama

African American Life Series General Editors Toni Cade Bambara Author and Filmmaker Geneva Smitherman-Donaldson Michigan State University Wilbur C. Rich Wayne State University Ronald W. Walters Howard University

THE ROOTS OF AFRICAN AMERICAN DRAMA An Anthology Of Early Plays, 1858-1938 Edited by Leo Hamalian and James V. Hatch Foreword by George C. Wolfe

Wayne State University Press Detroit

Copyright © 1991 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48202. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission. Library off Congress Cataloging-in-Publicatioii Data The Roots of African American drama : an anthology of early plays, 1858-1938 / edited by Leo Hamalian & James V. Hatch ; foreword by George C. Wolfe. p. cm. — (African American life) Includes bibliographical references. 1. American drama—Afro-American authors. 2. AfroAmericans—Drama. I. Hamalian, Leo. II. Hatch, James Vernon, 1928III. Series. PS628.N4R66 1991 812.008'0896073—dc20 90-1200 CIP ISBN 0-8143-2141-0 (alk. paper)

ISBN 0-8143-2141-0 (alk. paper)

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To our wives, Camille Billops and Linda Hamalian

Contents Foreword, George C. Wolfe 9 Preface

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction: Two Hundred Years of Black and White Drama, James V. Hatch 15 William Wells Brown 38 The Escape: or, A Leap for Freedom (1858) Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins 96 Peculiar Sam, or Thje Underground Railroad (1879) 100 Katherine D. Chapman Tillman 124 Aunt Betsy's Thanksgiving (c. 1914) 126 Mary Burrill 134 Aftermath (1919) 137 Butterbeans and Susie {Jodie and Susie Edwards) 152 Black Vaudeville (c. 1920) 155 Willis Richardson 159 The Chip Woman's Fortune (1923) Zora Neale Hurston 186 The First One (1927) 191

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CONTENTS

Joseph S. Mitchell 204 Help Wanted (1929) 207 Shirley Graham Tom-Tom (1932)

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George A. Towns 287 The Sharecropper (1932)

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May Miller 307 Nails and Thorns (1933)

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Owen Vincent Dodson 328 The Shining Town (1937) 332 Abram Hill 353 On Strivers Row (1938) General Bibliography

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Foreword Every time I return home, my parents know that I'm plotting to abscond with some prized family possession. Two Christmases ago, it was my grandfather's coat. Last spring, it was one of my great-grandmother's quilts. I always ask permission and they always flatly refuse. But then when I am packing to leave, my mother invariably asks, "Aren't you forgetting something?" She then presents me with the object we had been haggling about all along. I believe they always give in because they figure that living in a city like New York, I can use all the ancestral protection I can get. My most recent acquisition is a photograph of the 1912 student body of Kentucky State University, then called the Kentucky School for the Normal. Trees, one or two academic-looking buildings, and a few A-frame houses dot the horizon. And in the foreground spanning the entire width of the meager campus, are rows upon rows of black/Negro/colored folks all properly polished and pressed—looking so good, somebody had to gather them all together for a picture. The men are handsome and determined. The women are regal and poised. Each and every one of them is dressed with an attitude, wearing their determination and sense of mission as sure as they are wearing

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starched white collars and high-button dresses. You can see in their eyes where they have been, what they have overcome, and how far they are hoping to go. My Great-aunt Christine is in the picture. Everyone else is a stranger. But after endless hours of just staring at all those faces, I now claim everyone in the photograph as my own. I have other wonderful old photographs as well, of my grandmother and grandfather sitting under a tree on an Oriental rug, sipping drinks—the very embodiment of southern colored down-home elegance. Or of my Great-uncle Walter posed at the wheel of the train he drove. Or of my Uncle John and his brother proud and ready to rule the world. I not only hang them on my walls, but I carry them around in my head, so that when anyone dares to question my right to the best this country has to offer, all I've got to do is see these faces and know it's not about denial because what I come from is too rich for that. And that is the exact same feeling I had when reading the plays in this anthology. What I come from is too rich. William Wells Brown, Pauline Hopkins, Katherine D. Tillman, Mary Burrill, Butterbeans and Susie, Willis Richardson, Zora Neale Hurston, Joseph S. Mitchell, Shirley Graham, George A. Towns, May Miller, Owen Dodson, and Abram Hill. Some of the names may be familiar to you, some may not. Their stories and styles are as diverse as the culture they celebrate—realistic, musical, epic, didactic, romantic, sentimental, overly literate and sophisticated, naive and to the point. I for one am personally grateful to Leo Hamalian and James V. Hatch for making available this canon of work, because being a playwright and a human being in New York City/the world, I truly need all the ancestral protection I can get. George C. Wolfe

Preface Though many historically interesting plays by white playwrights are available in anthologies, few by early black writers are so accessible. Indeed, until the 1970s, almost none of the early plays could be found outside a library. Five of the thirteen plays published here have never been in print, and only three others are presently available anywhere. Traditionally the criteria for judging plays from early American drama are responsive to seven questions: (1) Is the play dramatically sound? (2) Is the play related to important developments in theater history? (3) Is the play vital in representing American life during that period? (4) Is the play a representative example of the theatrical style and genre of its time? (5) Does the play have any significance to a contemporary reader? (6) Was the author a significant writer of his or her time? (7) Is the play an undiscovered "treasure" that has been overlooked? While no play is this anthology meets all seven criteria, each does meet several. Many of these plays are relevant to our time, and several have been saved from an unjust obscurity. The subjects treated include slavery, sharecropping, World War I, employment, middleclass striving, the Depression, vaudeville, religion, and legend, and mythology. The styles include alle-

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gory, naturalism, realism, melodrama, musical comedy, and opera. Four of the plays are full-length, eight are one-acts, and one is a skit. The editors through the use of headnotes have placed the plays in the context of American history. A bibliography of other plays, as well as biographical information, precedes each script. A bibliography of books on all aspects of black drama appears at the end of the book. Finally, it seemed appropriate to invite a foreword from George C. Wolfe, whose enormously successful satire, The Colored Museum, covered the whole range of black drama from its roots to recent times. Leo Hamalian James V. Hatch

Acknowledgments The editors wish to thank Addell Austin, Ruth Hill, Gerald Kahan, Kathy Perkins, and Ann Allen Shockley for their assistance in finding the play scripts. Special acknowledgments go to Lois Lyles for providing the biographical information on George A. Towns and to Ellen Simon for editorial comment on the introduction. The libraries that provided research data include the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, New York; the Trevor Arnett Library, Atlanta University; Archives Library, Fisk University; and the Hatch-Billops Collection, New York. Inquiries regarding permissions for production of the plays published here should be addressed to the following agents: On Strivers Row, Mrs. Ruth Hill, 2569 Seventh Ave., Apt. 17F, New York, N.Y. 10032. Nails and Thorns, Ms. May Miller, 1632 S St. N.W., Washington, D.C. 20009. Peculiar Sam, Ann Allen Shockley, Chief Archivist, Fisk University Library, Nashville, Tenn. 37203. The Chip Woman's Fortune, Ms. Joyce L. Richardson, 108 E. 97th St., New York, N.Y. 10029. All other inquiries may be addressed to Hatch-Billops Collection, Inc., 491 Broadway, 7th floor, New York, N.Y. 10012. 13

Introduction: Two Hundred Years of Black and White Drama James V. Hatch In 1949, Langston Hughes published a poem entitled "A Note on Commercial Theatre." The second verse reads: You put me in Macbeth and Carmen Jones And all kinds of Swing Mikados And in everything but what's about me— But someday somebodyll Stand up and talk about me, And write about me— Black and beautiful— And sing about me, And put on plays about me! I reckon it'll be Me Myself! Yes, it'll be me.

A white reader may have exclaimed, "What is he sore about? Those were good shows with great black stars!" They were. But these shows and many "black" plays did not present an image that Mr. Hughes could recognize as black. Much black theater in the last twenty years can be understood in this light: the attempt of black playwrights to present honest black images on an American stage that for two centuries presented dishonest ones, written by white playwrights.

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The Great White Way One of the best mirrors we can find to illuminate the subtleties of racism is the mirror of traditional theater history. The misshapen images reflected in this cracked glass sprang from American culture, and here white and black people can see themselves awry, images distorted into grotesqueries. Many people believe that black theater began with Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun (1959) and that whatever preceded Hansberry did not amount to much. They are wrong. Black theater stretches back into antiquity, and for Afro-Americans, shared glory with the dark-skinned pharaohs of Egypt is as legitimate as shared glory with the Greeks for Western Caucasians. However, until recently, Egypt, the site of the most ancient monuments where religious ritual flourished, was excised politically from the African continent by Western historians who labeled the culture of the pharaohs not an African but a Semitic-Hamitic triumph. With Egypt and Arab North Africa skimmed off the top of the continent, the world's most ancient rituals (the Memphite dramas and the birth and death of Osiris) disappeared from African history to become objects of Middle Eastern studies or a separate area of study, Egyptology. Only in the late twentieth century have scholars again identified the "Negroid" features of the pharaohs of the Upper Nile with the people south of the Sahara. Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, or Ibsen should not be invidiously compared to the African tradition—which was often an improvisational oral, musical, and community affair as contrasted to the white, copyrighted, individually conceived product that marks Western capitalism. This is not to say that a black playwright like August Wilson or a black actor like James Earl Jones cannot adopt the European tradition as an alternative form; in this genre a black artist using a Western tradition is analogous to a white musician employing ragtime, jazz, or bebop.

INTRODUCTION

Another approach is to dissolve the dichotomy altogether in favor of the humanist approach, to assume that human nature is universal (Shakespeare belongs to all races and all times). The humanist approach is appealing for the sweet truth in it, but culture does create differences in perception. Shakespeare saw Othello the African through Western eyes and not necessarily as an Ashanti, a Zulu, or even a Berber might have conceived himself. On the other hand, African and Western traditions are strongly represented in today's black theater— sometimes by the same artist. And why not? A Black American can feel that he or she has a stake in both traditions. However, few will grant the white artist the same right, because white artists creating in the black traditions have often indulged in commercial and racial exploitation. This point will be made clear by a brief look at nineteenth-century American drama, particularly the stereotypes as set down by Sterling Brown in the famous essay "Negro Characters as Seen by White Authors" (1933). Early white American drama was imported from the English stage. Although the first African may not have stepped upon England's shores before 1554, the black image had entered English theater earlier through two diverse images of kings: Balthasar and Lucifer. In the fourteenth century, the Christmas pageants presented the Magi bearing gifts to the Christ child, and just as the kings represented the homage of the entire world, Balthasar symbolized the darker races. By the sixteenth century, other "forces of darkness" had appeared on stage in the guise of black-faced devils and demons. In the seventeenth century, the English masques used black-faced figures much as the English aristocrats used black page boys—for novelty and display. In 1605, Inigo Jones designed Ben Jonson's Masque of Blackness for Queen Anne of Denmark. The queen and her ladies blackened their faces, "a very loathsome sight." In the more serious mode of revenge tragedies, the Renaissance black king (then

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called a Moor or a blackamoor) became a captive and took bloody revenge upon his Christian captors. For two or three hundred years, the black image on stage remained an anomaly, something exotic, something outside daily experience, until the slave trade changed all that. As slavery became the blue-chip investment of its day, the tradition from Balthasar to Oroonoko faded away, leaving the once noble Othello as Friday, a wretch whose very appearance convicted him of sin, leaving him fit only to be a servant to the entrepreneur Robinson Crusoe. It is not surprising then that the first black character who appears in an American drama—in a play The Disappointment or The Force of Credulity (1767)—is named Raccoon, the animal from which the racial epithet "coon" derives. Some scholars have maintained that Raccoon is not a Black but Dutch or something other; the point is moot, for other stereotypes are in the offing. Tracing the development of the servant / slave character at the hands of white playwrights is painful and repetitious, but a few examples are necessary to show how they corrupted the black image in diction, thought, and character, and at the same time to note how these distortions have been countered by black playwrights. First, diction. In a very early play, The Candidates (1770) by Robert Mumford, the black servant Ralpho asks his master for a new livery. The master gives Ralpho a cast-off suit of his own (yes, even then), and the white author has Ralpho express his enthusiasm over the secondhand livery: "Gads! This figures of mine is not reconsiderable in its delurement. . . . The girls I'm thinking, will find me desisible." This introduction of pre-Sheridan malapropisms for comedy was a device that white authors used for one hundred and fifty years. But they did not leave bad enough alone. By 1845, the diction of the servant had developed into near jibberish. In Fashion by Anna Cora Mowatt, the opening scene shows Zeke examining his new dashing scarlet livery before Millinette the French maid:

INTRODUCTION ZEKB: Dere's a coat to take de eyes ob all Broadway! Oh! Miswsy, it am de fixins dat make de natural born gemman. A libery forever! Dere's da pair ob insuppressibles to stonish de colored population. MILLINETTE: Oh, oui, Monsieur Zeke, {aside) I not comprend one word he say!

Most African languages, like the French, did not employ the voiced or unvoiced th phonene of English. The African substitution of a d for th as in "dere" for "there" in the eighteenth century soon became associated with slavery and ignorance. However, to American ears, Charles Boyer's French substitution of z for th in "za Casbah" sounded romantic and chic. Black playwrights recognized many ways in which black people used English according to class, region, and social strata. Mary Burrill in Aftermath (reprinted here) has placed her drama in a backwoods cabin in South Carolina. The people use an initial r but not a final one. They employ the Middle English "hit" for "it," and, to a marked degree, their dialect is not different from that of backwoods whites. George A. Towns, author of The Sharecropper (reprinted here), grew up in southern Georgia and records a very similar speech; however, Miss Jones, the black schoolteacher in that play, speaks standard English, and the white landlord has his own dialect variation: "You jes tell 'im to git away fum here. . . . " None of the dialects is used to degrade the characters or to make them appear comic. Nor does Zora Neale Hurston use dialect to wring comedy out of the biblical narrative The First One, reprinted here. It is quite different from northern urban black diction as recorded by Alice Childress or Ed Bullins, which itself is different from diction in Dallas as written by Ted Shine. Some authors frankly show that Blacks often speak two languages, black and white dialects. In No Place to Be Somebody (1969) by Charles Gordone, the black man, Gabe, speaks to the audience in Act II: We moved out of that dirty black slum Away from those dirty black people

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INTRODUCTION Who live in those dirty black hovels Amid all of that garbage and filth.

In Act III, Gabe speaks again to the audience in a different dialect: They's mo to bein' black than meets the eye! Bein' black, is like the way ya walk an' talk It's a way of lookin' at life Bein' black is like sayin' "Wha's happenin' Babeeee!" an' bein' understood. Bein' black has a way of makin' ya call somebody a mu-tha-fuc-kah an' really meanin' it!

White playwrights distorted black characters by means other than diction. Whites came to deny their own common sense. One of the all-time favorite scenes of northern white audiences was the manumission of the slave. An early example appears in The Triumph of Love by J. Murdock. The master offers Sambo his freedom. After kissing the skirt of his master's coat, Sambo cries: "Oh marsa George, I feel how I never feel before. God bless you. (cries) I must go, or my heart burst, {exits)" That a man offered his freedom takes it is only common sense to an American twenty years after the Declaration of Independence. Yet fifty years later some writers had forgotten their common sense. Here is the same scene from an antiabolitionist play, The Guerrillas (1862) by James MacCabe. Marse Arthur has just offered Jerry his freedom: JERRY: Marse Arthur, yous jokin'. ARTHUR: No, Jerry. I am serious. You are free. JERRY: {indignant) A free nigger? I don't want to be free. . . . What I want to be free for? {with feeling) Marse Arthur, I been in your family eber since I was born. If youse tired of old Jerry jis' take him out in de field and shoot him, don't set him free, please don't. . . .

This scene and its many variations became increasingly popular in the South and the North after the Civil War. Although the basis of slavery was economic, white greed and the guilt of that greed were softened by lies that whites told themselves in their theaters;

INTRODUCTION

whites were obsessed with the idea that black people loved them. Blackening their faces with hog fat and burnt cork, they repeated these lies to themselves until they believed them. Black playwright William Wells Brown, himself a three-time runaway slave, knew what black people wanted. In his fine play The Escape; on A Leap for Freedom (reprinted here), there is a low-comedy character named Cato who has played the stupid servant for five acts. Abruptly, Cato runs away to Canada, an action that no white playwright ever dreamed of writing for a comic "darky." Once safe, Cato sings: Massa gave me his ole coat, an' thought I'd happy be, But I had my eye on the North Star, an' thought of liberty. Ole massa lock de door, an den he went to sleep, I dress myself in his bess clothes, an' jump into the street.

More than a century later, discarding the stupid darky disguise, the maid in Ed Bullins's The Gentleman Caller (1966) murders her employers and assumes the role of the madam. The black folk were in disguise all right, but under that black mask there was no white face. Among the most vicious of these stage lies was the consciously constructed myth that the black was a coward. Although an estimated sixty-five thousand black soldiers died in the Civil War, the coward's image flourished as the white man's fantasy. Here is a scene from Defending the Flag (1894) by Laura Downing: SNOWBALL: What's dat you saying *bout Gineral Grant? Yo' ain't gwine fer to be a sojer, aire you, Marse Rob? You'se too little fer to be a sojer. ROBBIE: And you're too big not to be a soldier, Snowball. SNOWBALL: {shaking) Me—me a sojer, Marse Rob? ROBBIE: Why of course. Here are all these brave men from the North giving their lives to free your people—you sit right down and let them do all the fighting. Aren't you ashamed? SNOWBALL: Um—um—um. S-say, Miss Bee wants me. Y-yes she does. ROBBIE: No, she don't either. You're just trying to get away. Say, Snowball, what would you do if you were in battle? SNOWBALL: You don't neber cotch dis chile in no battle, no sah! Say, Miss Bee she done wats me.

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INTRODUCTION ROBBIE: You're a coward, and I'm going to Miss Trixy myself and tell her to send you to the war to make a soldier out of you. SNOWBALL: {running to door after him) No-no, don't please, Marse Rob, I-I. Oh! Dayll sen' me off fer sojer sure, and'-an'—111 done git my head shot off—an' den howll I feel?

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These scenes were not the exceptions but the rule. Defending the Flag was written in the same year that 134 Blacks were lynched. Against these stage lies, black authors wrote plays to demonstrate the black person's courage. William Easton wrote about the slave uprising and the war for independence in Haiti in his play Dessalines (1893). Dessalines, the hero of the play, is a black man whose courage inspires his soldiers to defeat the French army. George A. Town's The Sharecropper depicts one farmer's courage against the theft of his crops, and Willis Richardson's The Chip Woman's Fortune (reprinted here) quietly suggests another kind of courage, the bravery of keeping on "keeping on." Three black plays present the dilemma of the black man fighting for white America: Mary Burrills' Aftermath, the story of a veteran returning to the segregated South; Alice Dunbar Nelson's Mine Eyes Have Seen (1918), which questions whether Blacks should accept combat duty in World War I; and Randolph Edmond's Yellow Death (1935), which examines the black soldier's role in the Spanish American War. All three plays conclude that Blacks should serve because they are American, but in turn, Blacks should be accorded the full rights of citizenship or they will fight for them. In contemporary black drama, the black soldier is shown in other aspects. In Imamu Baraka's Experimental Death Unit #1 (1965), the black soldiers kill the whites and cut off their heads. Or, again, black soldiers suffer in-group racism because of white-only standards in Charles Fuller's A Soldier's Story (1981). Both dramas feature black counterversions of a white stereotype, the Brute. The Brute Negro, as Sterling Brown clearly reveals, was a white man's fictional creation, a black beast given to rape, pillage, and murder in its final apothe-

INTRODUCTION

osis, the monster King Kong. The touchstone of this "monster" was hatred—hatred for whites, for his community, even for himself. No good could come from him. No matter how many police were fielded against him, he would appear on the lawns, in the schools, in the banks, and in the bedrooms of white America to confront his creator. The Brute flourishes in white drama at the turn of the century, when white oppression-through-violence was at its peak. After several early tentative appearances, the Brute makes his full entrance as Sampson in Green and Grismer's The New South (1893) as a "very mean darky." His most famous role was in the Reverend Thomas Dixon's The Clansman (1906), first a novel, then a play, and finally D. W. Griffith's classic Birth of a Nation. His long life at the hands of white authors began to dwindle after the 1920s with Heyward's Porgy in the person of Crown, although twenty years later the black actor Canada Lee was cast as the bestial Caliban serving a white master in a successful version of The Tempest (1945). But the Brute was one white stereotype that some black writers were interested in keeping alive, because the image acquired reality in black experience. There was Stagolee, immortalized in the ballad: The high sheriff told the deputies "Get you pistols and come with me. We got to go 'rest that badman Stagolee." The deputies took their pistols And laid them on the shelf. "If you want that badman Stagolee Go 'rest him by yourself."

"Bad" man and "baad" man have opposite meanings; the second means so tough, so fine, so Black and strong that he is good. Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song depicts a "baad" man. John Henry as presented in Theodore Browne's Natural Man is "baad." Jack Johnson, the boxer, was a "baad" man. Caleb in Joseph Cotter, Sr.'s play Caleb the Degenerate (1901) is a "baad" man, the complete antithesis of the virtues the black man supposedly aspired to.

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Caleb drinks, blasphemes, lies, kills his parents, and snorts cocaine; he rebels in the tradition of Satan, and the reader can't help admiring him. Another important play in the tradition is Randolph Edmond's oneact, Bad Man (c. 1930). Thea, the "baad" man, dies to save a cabin full of brothers and sisters from a lynch mob. In an excellent essay on this folk character, Professor William Wiggins, Jr., points out that the "baad nigger" traditionally had (1) an utter disregard of death and danger; (2) a great concentration on sexual virility; (3) a great extravagance in buying cars, clothing, and so on; and (4) an insatiable love of having a good time. This is not the portrait of a boy who knows how to keep his place. No wonder that in white drama influenced by the Puritan tradition he always has to be killed. The most perceptive twist given to the Brute came from Richard Wright. In Native Son (1941), Wright lays the blame clearly on the white society for denying Bigger Thomas an education, a job, and self-respect. The play was only a partial box-office success when it opened in March of 1941. In Wright's radio drama adapted from his short story "Big Black Good Man," a Danish hotel keeper mistakes a "baad" sailor for the Brute and suffers comic consequences. By the 1960s, the Brute became increasingly articulate and socially aware of who his real enemy was. Twenty years earlier Bigger had to have a Jewish lawyer articulate his pain, but the black protagonist Walker Vessal of The Slave (1964) by Imamu Baraka speaks for himself and supervises the apocalyptic eruption that brings down the curtain on white civilization in America. In the dramatic criticism of black drama, such men as Walker qualify in existential terms as antiheroes. Yet white critics, through a decade of French and American antiheroes, never designated black characters as such. For the same reason, men like Bobby Seale, Steve Biko, George Jackson, and Nelson Mandela were often labeled by the white press as criminals instead of the revolutionaries they were; the black

INTRODUCTION

press called them Freedom Fighters. The white community still sees the Brute as a "bad nigger," but Blacks have long respected him as a "baad cat." A number of black plays make use of "baad" men of varying degrees: Richard Henry in Blues for Mr. Charlie (1964) by James Baldwin; Johnny in No Place to Be Somebody (1969) by Charles Gordone; and one of the cleverest, Art in Goin'a Buffalo (1966) by Ed Bullins, because he is able to fool not only the whites but even his black friends. The climax to this tradition is Melvin Van Peebles's Sweetback and his film imitators

in Shaft Slaughter, and Blacula.

A close cousin of the Brute is the Exotic Primitive. While the driving force of the former is hatred, the mainspring of the Primitive is having a good time— wine, women, and song. He might occasionally become angry in a crap game, but his razor is always reserved for people of his own color. The Exotic Primitive is a later white creation, reaching his vogue in the 1920s, during the black so-called renaissance when whites voyaged to Harlem to hear hot jazz, to see black bodies writhe in savage dance, to drink bootleg gin, and to catch an echo of the dark laughter, suggesting the raw jungle. One of the first white playwrights to exploit this tradition was Ridgley Torrence in a one-act, Granny Maumee (1917). Granny raises the ghost of her dead son by means of voodoo rites in a scene of strong theatrical appeal. The possibilities were more thoroughly exploited by Eugene O'Neill in The Emperor Jones (1920), a classic of white man's exotica. Other plays in the exotic mode were Earth (1927) by Jo Em Basshe; Goat Alley (1921) by Ernest Culberston; Porgy (1927) by Dubose and Dorothy Heyward; and Carmen Jones (1943) by Oscar Hammerstein. Some black writers contributed their own versions, such as St. Louis Woman (1946), based on a script written in the 1930s by Countee Cullen and Arna Bontemps. Althoiigh this tradition might be said to have climaxed in 1930 with Marc Connelly's Green Pastures, the genre limped into the 1940s, when the World War II phrase "racial toler-

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ance" was replaced by "integration," and some middleclass Blacks let it be known that they did not "have rhythm," never carried razors or sat on stoops sipping Thunderbird. With the partial failure of the Civil Rights Movement and the rise of Black Power groups in the mid-1960s, the black integrationist middle class found itself labeled white, an intolerable position because whites also rejected them. Black became beautiful, and Black was defined as that which was distinct from white, that which whites hated, and that which whites had caused some black people to hate in themselves. Consequently, shaking ass to funky music, grinding with a righteous right leg, eating greens and grits, the use of "muthafukah," and a general life-style of "loud and wrong" were welcomed back as expressions of the real black soul. This conflict between the real Black Soul and the Bourgeois Negro was dramatized in Wine in the Wilderness (1969) by Alice Childress. Tommy, a soul sister from the streets of Harlem, is set up by Bill, a middle-class painter, to be mocked and exploited; however, by the end of the play, Tommy's vitality and honesty, springing from roots of black culture, win out over the flabby middle class. There are interesting variations within this theme. Bullins's Clara's Ole Man (1965) pits a tough black woman lesbian against a Negro college boy. In Gentleman Caller (1966) by the same author, the black maid triumphs over her white employers, as does the protagonist in Ossie Davis's Purlie Victorious (1961). One of the soundest trouncings the middle class gets is in Rosalee Pritchett (1970) by Carlton and Barbara Molette. In this play, the bridge-playing set refuses to give up its white allegiance even after several white national guardsmen rape one of its members. The black woman has never threatened the white psychic crotch in the way that the black male does. She has been given employment denied to her man. The stereotype of the matriarch, or the Mammy who loved her white family, began in the mid-nineteenth

INTRODUCTION

century. Chloe in Mrs. Sidney Bateman's Self (1856) offers to sell herself to save her white mistress from bankruptcy. (Contrast Chloe with Mrs. Love in black writer Ted Shine's Contribution more than one hundred years later, where the black woman poisons her white folks and gets away with it because the white folks are convinced that she loves them.) The Mammy character, when not loving white folks, is denouncing her husband as a lazy, no-good nigger. Piling up plays like a topless stack of wheat cakes, she had survived in all her indignation right up to Hattie McDaniel's Mammy portrait in Gone with the Wind, the greatest all-time box-office grosser in motion picture history, still pushing the image of Blacks-as-retarded at our neighborhood theaters and in our living rooms. The strong black woman exists; she has to. But black playwrights have presented her with an important difference: she does not love white folks, but she does love her black man; she understands why he cannot find work, his feelings of panic, his madness, his drinking. Owen Dodson's The Shining Town (reprinted here) is a bitter and poetic picture of the woman who must slave as a domestic during the Depression because her husband is denied work; she expresses her anger, not against him, but against the system that deprives him of his manhood. In Ron Milner's Who's Got His Own (1966), a mother teaches her son that he must love his father because the old man has paid his dues. Three other fine plays of black family life that portray the male-female conflict in terms of an understanding woman are Richardson's The Chip Woman's Fortune, Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun (1959); James Baldwin's Amen Corner (1954); and one of the most extensive examinations of the southern middle-class family of the last generation, Thomas Pawley's The Tumult and the Shouting (1969). Of course there are male-female conflicts in modern black drama. Nora and Leon in Joseph S. Mitchell's Help Wanted (reprinted here) quarrel bitterly because he cannot find work; but when the crisis comes, Aunt Nora defends him against the whites even though he

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INTRODUCTION

is forced to become a strikebreaker. In the postvaudeville skits of Butterbeans and Susie, marital conflict rages in hyperbolic vitriol, provoking laughter through exaggeration. However, Ntozake Shange's For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide I When the Rainbow Is Enuf (1976) declared a real male-female war that initiated a series of plays examining black women's roles in the feminist movement. Black women playwrights—and there has been an unbroken line, from Katherine D. Tillman's often naive Aunt Betsy's Thanksgiving (reprinted here) to the sophisticated symbolic drama of Adrienne Kennedy— have written about the male-female world in a variety of ways. In Angelina Grimke's Rachel (1916), the heroine strongly supports the black man but hates the white society so much that she refuses marriage because she does not wish to bring children into an ugly world. May Miller in 1933 wrote Nails and Thorns (reprinted here) as a contribution to a long list of antilynching dramas. In 1927, Zora Neale Hurston, in The First One (reprinted here), poked fun at the original race prejudice on earth, that between Noah's family and his son, Ham. Other black women's viewpoints on this subject include Myrtle Livingston, who in a oneact, For Unborn Children (1926), condemns a black man for choosing a white woman over his "own kind." Alice Childress's Mojo (1970) suggests that black men and women can work out their differences if they love and respect each other as equals. In recent years, there has been a considerable number of black women playwrights. Today's list includes Adrienne Kennedy, Sandra Sharp, Glenda Dickerson, Vinnette Carroll, Vinie Burrows, Aishah Rahman, Judi Ann Mason, Sharon Stockard Martin, Micki Grant, Alice Childress, Glory Van Scott, Lynda Patton, Martie Charles, J. E. Franklin, Sonia Sanchez, Abby Lincoln, Barbara Molette, Elaine Jackson, Elaine Flagg, China Clark, Lorna Littleway, Shauneille Perry, Endisha Holland, Zoe Walker, J. P. Gibson, Kathleen Collins, Veona Thomas, Elizabeth Brown-Guillory, and, of course, Hansberry and Shange.

INTRODUCTION

Among the many black modern women writing for the stage, Adrienne Kennedy is a true poet of the theater and probably the most experimental of all black playwrights. Her play Funnyhouse of a Negro (1964) concerns a girl's identity: her father is black, her mother white. If Blacks and whites alike have declared that mixing races is bad, how is the girl to accept both parts of her inheritance? According to the official white myth, mixing the races was bad for whites although it might improve the Negro. Nevertheless, on stage persons of mixed blood must die, even if the black blood be but one drop. The best known of this genre was Dion Boucicault's The Octoroon (1859). Zoe, the octoroon, looks white. George, not knowing she is a Black, proposes to her; instead of being happy, Zoe is in despair and finally explains to George. ZOE: And what shall I say? I—my mother was—no, no—not her! Why should I refer the blame to her? George, do you see that hand you hold? Look at these fingers: do you see the nails are of a bluish tinge? GEORGE: Yes, near the quick there is a faint blue mark. ZOE: Look in my eyes; is not the same color in the white? GEORGE: It is their beauty. ZOE: Could you see the roots of my hair you would see the same dark fatal mark. Do you know what that is? GEORGE: No.

ZOE: That is the ineffaceable curse of Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, one drop in eight is black—bright red as the rest may be, that drop poisons all the blood; those seven bright drops give me love like yours—ambition like yours—but the one black drop gives me despair, for I'm an unclean thing—forbidden by the laws—I'm an Octoroon!

This popular play had its last professional revival in 1961 at the Phoenix Theatre in New York City. Its popularity with white audiences was based on more than its theatricality. The tragic-mulatto myth continued down through Edward Shelton's The Nigger (1909), in which the hero is about to be elected governor until his black past is discovered, to Eugene O'Neill's uninformed attempt to examine the issues in All God's Chillun Got Wings (1924).

29

3O

INTRODUCTION

Unfortunately, OTfeill's Negro is such a weakass that the premise of the story is defeated. The original production starred the young Paul Robeson, who at one point kissed his white wife's hand. The newspapers , predicted a race riot. Nothing happened. Finally the film Lost Boundries (1949) capped that tradition. In 1968, the American audience watched Jack Johnson (James Earl Jones) climb into bed with his white woman in Howard Sackler's Great White Hope, but any objections were nicely taken care of by her death ' before curtain time. Black writers have also been opposed to miscegenation. For Unborn Children (1926) by Myrtle Livingston has the grandmother and the sister severely condemn the black man who wishes to marry a white woman. Langston Hughes's first Broadway play, Mulatto (1935), depicted a mixed race and the mixed-up son of a white plantation owner and his black house servant. The son returns home to demand his inheritance, kills his father, and is killed in turn. This stage tradition of the tragic mulatto has survived contrary to historical reality. Despite all the visual evidence that thousands and thousands of mulattos enliven the populace, black and white writers have insisted on killing off their stage counterparts in an expression of ideological preference. An important modification to this trend is Alice Childress's lovely, human play Wedding Band (1966), and related to it is Mitchell's Help Wanted, in which the light-skinned hero refuses to "pass" even though doing so may lead to a job and prosperity. Before we discuss black theater as a separate history, there is one last nineteenth-century nexus with white theater to be explored: the minstrel show, recognized as America's first original contribution to theater form. The minstrel show originated on the southern plantation. White historians have suggested that the show took place as an entertainment for Ole Massa. Black historians say that the singing, dancing, and improvised dialogues were for the slaves' own amusement

INTRODUCTION

and, further more, that much of the material was cannily conceived satire on the master and his house servants. "Everybody talkin' *bout heaven ain't a'goin' there" referred to the white Christians. By the eighteenth century, the richness of black culture was receiving the compliment of imitation and exploitation. White performers in blackface sang and danced black music, often passing it off as their own creation. A black singer, Picayune Butle, wrote a song he named "Old Zip Coon." George Nichols, a white performer in Purdy Brown's Circus, introduced the song as his own, calling it "Turkey in the Straw." In the early 1830s, a white showman named Daddy Rice witnessed a jump dance performed by a black boy. Taken with the lad's originality, Rice blackened his own face and entitled his grotesque imitation "Jumping Jim Crow." So popular did Rice's act become that "Jim Crow" became a generic term for Negro. White minstrel shows formally began in 1842 with the antics of Dan Emmett, the supposed composer of "Dixie." In the forty years that followed, hundreds of white men donned hog fat and burnt cork to make thousands and thousands of dollars by mimicking and distorting black music, black speech, black dance, and black culture, a tradition that was to last into the mid-twentieth century with Al Jolson, Eddie Cantor, George Jessel, and Amos and Andy. Even T. S. Eliot drew upon it for his play Sweeny Agonistes. After the Civil War, several black minstrel troupes appeared, but to succeed they had to imitate their imitators, and they too blackened their faces and drew white and red circles around their mouths and eyes. Pauline Hopkins in 1879 wrote Peculiar Sam, or The Underground Railroad (reprinted here) for her family's troupe, the Hopkins' Colored Troubadours; she employed the current minstrel dialect as well as song and dance to engage her audience in the serious subject of emancipation. By the late 1880s, the minstrel tradition was losing steam, and a number of black composers and writers turned to creating musicals and variety shows. There were two great decades

31

32

INTRODUCTION

of black musicals. The first was ragtime—from Clorindy; or The Origin of the Cake Walk (1898) by Will Marion Cook and Paul Laurence Dunbar, to The Red Moon (1909) by Bob Cole and Rosamund Johnson. The second, the jazz decade, was from Shuffle Along (1921) by Miller, Lyles, Sissle, and Blake, to The Blackbirds of 1928. One composer, Shirley Graham, in 1932 wrote an opera, Tom-Tom (reprinted here) using African themes and rhythms. Although recognition of their contributions to the American stage has been slow (Scott Joplin's ragtime opera Treemonisha waited sixty years to be acclaimed), nonetheless, without these black artists the American musical might still be waltzing with an umpah-pah-pah to the descendants of Merry Widow and Naughty Marietta. Minstrel imagery died hard. In 1959, Jean Genet picked up the blackface tradition and reversed the roles, giving the black actors white faces. The Blacks enjoyed a long run in New York, providing a number of black actors with work. Today, many black theater artists reject Genet's play as a negative image of black nationalism; they see the play's thesis (that Blacks will come to power only to behave like whites) as a variety of white man's propaganda meant to keep Blacks in their place. The tradition received its final comeuppance in Douglas Turner Ward's one-act Day of Absence (1965), which must be understood as a reversal of the minstrel show role. If the play is performed by whites, it simply is not funny; but performed by blacks in whiteface, it is hilarious because the inversion becomes a satire upon a mask. How much of its hilarity depends on our knowledge of what went down in a hundred years of stereotyping the comic Negro? Perhaps the minstrel show and the early musicals with the comic darky character are partially responsible for a peculiar phenomenon—the relative absence of comedy in black drama. In the hundred and fifty years of black playwriting, except for a few plays by Langston Hughes and some one-acts by Eulalie Spence and Ruth Gaines Shelton, comedy was rare until Abram Hill's On Striv-

INTRODUCTION

ers Row (reprinted here), a witty satire on the middle class. Nightclub acts, vaudeville skits like those of Butterbeans and Susie, and comic operas like those of Williams and Walker were perhaps written more for black audiences than white. Modern satire really came into its own with Purlie Victorious (1961) by Ossie Davis and reached its apogee with George C. Wolfe's The Colored Museum (1987). This does not mean that black people never mocked white audiences. Hurston's The First One derides those who believe that racial differences are destiny. The black dancer Avon Long slapped his ass toward the white audience in the Cotton Club in a dance called The Black Bottom, but some joy in saying "Kiss my black unruly ass" must have been lost if the audience did not realize that it was being mocked. Although black people have made jokes about Whitey and about themselves for centuries, not until the Civil Rights Movement did stand-up comics, such as Moms Mabley and Dick Gregory, bring this racial material to the integrated theater. In the 1960s, satire, ridicule, and laughter became commercial, and comedy—true black comedy—came onto the stage. By 1987, when Wolfe's furiously funny satire The Colored Museum opened at the Public Theater in New York, audiences, both black and white, laughed uproariously at references to hair, music, and language that but a decade or two earlier would have been exclusively in-group black humor. The Great Black Way In 1965, LeRoi Jones demanded a theater about black people, with black people, for black people and only black people. White theater people rose up to denounce "reverse racism." Hadn't the white establishment given Obies to Mr. Jones for his angry plays? And the ungrateful Mr. Jones (who was soon to abandon even his slave name) was demanding Black Power in the theater! The death of assimilationist Mr. Jones

33

34

INTRODUCTION

and birth of cultural-nationalist Imamu Amiri Baraka reflected the Black Power Movement in microcosm, and it can be seen in his own plays. In Dutchman (1964), the black man is killed for allowing himself to be provoked by a white woman. In The Slave (1964), the black man kills the white man and leaves his own white wife and his own miscegenated children as he goes to rejoin the black army. Great Goodness of Life (1967) is the exorcism of all that is white in a black man. Experimental Death Unit #1 (1965) is the killing of Whitey and all Blacks who consort with Whitey. B. P. Chant (1968) is the praising of Blacks, the building of Nationtime. What whites did not know and many still don't know is that the call for a black theater was not new. In 1926, W. E. B. Du Bois supervised the formation of the Krigwas, a series of theater groups, to produce "plays about Negroes, by Negroes, for Negroes, and near Negroes." The Krigwas did that in Harlem, in Washington, D.C., and in Baltimore, including a production of The Chip Woman's Fortune. But this is not the beginning of the story. The Howard Players, the Lafayette Players, the Ethiopian Players, and the Peking Stock Company had all appeared before the 1920s. Although nothing in the past corresponds exactly to contemporary plays such as Melvin Van Peebles's Ain't Supposed to Die a Natural Death (1971), which holds up a hard-focus mirror to black people to view themselves, there were soft-focus mirrors such as Angelina Grimke's Rachel (1916), a drama of the middle class written in response to the racist film Birth of a Nation. Modern biographical dramas written to inspire, such as N. R. Davidson's El Hajj Malik (1968) about the life of Malcolm X, have their precedents in biographical plays written for black schoolchildren in the 1930s. These include the works of Willis Richardson, May Miller, and the poet Georgia Douglas Johnson, all based in Washington, D.C. Among their subjects were Crispus Attucks, Frederick Douglass, and the son of Moses by his Ethiopian wife.

INTRODUCTION

Not all black theater has been overtly political. Professor Alain Locke of Howard University edited an anthology in 1927 entitled Plays of Negro Life. Here stories of family life focus on character, often folk people with their daily human problems. The first black drama on Broadway, The Chip Woman's Fortune by Willis Richardson, was a folk piece of family life, celebrating the virtues of integrity and generosity among the underdogs. Early overtly nonpolitical plays have their contemporary counterparts in Lonne Elder Ill's Ceremonies in Dark Old Men (1965) and Ted Shine's Shoes (1969) and Morning, Noon and Night (1964). Alice Childress and Lonne Elder III have written urban folk plays using the descendants of the city people portrayed by Langston Hughes in the 1930s. The Pulitzer Prize drama Fences (1986) by August Wilson stems directly from the family play tradition. Strong links between the theater generations have been and are being forged in black colleges and schools. Many black artists studied with Randolph Edmonds and Clifton Lamb at Morgan State; or Joseph Hill at Lincoln; or Alain Locke, Sterling Brown, Anne Cooke Reid, James Butcher, and Owen Dodson at Howard University, as today they study with Thomas Pawley, George Bass, Vernell Lillie, Beverly Robinson, Von Washington, William Brown, Sam Hay, Ted Shine, Errol Hill, Glenda Dickerson, Ethel Pitts Walker, Carlton and Barbara Molette, Rhonnie Washington, Sandra Richards, Winona Fletcher, Addell Austin, Lloyd Richards, Amiri Baraka, Anthony Hill, Margaret Wilkerson, and many others. Many students owed their training to professionals such as Hall Johnson, Anita Bush, and, later, Frank Silvera, as today they get training from the Frank Silvera or the Frederick Douglass workshops in New York or from Bernard Jackson, Josie Dotson, Vantile Whitfield, Richard Wesley, Woodie King, Kathy Perkins, Lloyd Richards, Douglas Turner Ward, and Robert Hooks. These people, and many more, have given free instruction to hundreds of black talents, often providing stipends, even room and

35

36

INTRODUCTION

board. This vast story of interrelationships has yet to be researched and written, but when it is, we will see better how the black theater has survived for a century and a half and why its traditions have been so tightly woven. Even those young, talented playwrights who are unaware of the theater tradition are aware of the continuity of black life in America, a continuity that reaches back through nearly four centuries of struggle to live, a struggle that has manifested itself in a life attitude and spirit called "soul." It is here that white people must remain outsiders in any deep sense. White singers can imitate a soul sound, white dancers can imitate a soul movement, money can be made from this as always, but the black person has a soul culture that is ultimately invisible to most whites. Perhaps this can best be understood by analogy: if a non-Indian attends a performance of kathakali theater in a temple in Kerala, India, even with a translator, the nonIndian is not seeing the same play that the indigenous audience is. The significance of gesture, sounds, and words and their connotations is lost; one can witness the audience's reactions but cannot share them. Because black drama is in English and it has an American setting, white audiences believe that they understand it, but this is not necessarily true. White people who have not experienced discrimination by color do not laugh at the same jokes or catch the same body and verbal nuances as the Blacks in the audience. They may like the play, think it speaks to them, but unless they have grown up black they do not have the same appreciation, the same "soul" the black audience has. The failure of most white critics to recognize black soul has led to many poor judgments based on the assumption that the drama was written for whites. More black critics writing in mainstream periodicals would correct that misconception. Black theater has long been a most vital, exciting theater, and it remains a place to learn, not only about black people but about white people, too. This volume, converging on the formal origins of that theater, dem-

INTRODUCTION

onstrates that truth. Almost all the themes of contemporary black drama were anticipated in these plays. Though their techniques are less sophisticated than those of Alice Childress, Charles Fuller, Lorraine Hansberry, August Wilson, lor James de Jongh, nonetheless their message remains relevant to our times, and their spirit is unquenchable. And, finally, from the writers included in this volume, only Butterbeans and Susie earned a livelihood from the theater. These black playwrights wrote their dramas from moral convictions, and it is most curious that they chose the theater as a platform. However, they did know that the audience for their plays would be black, and the urgency of their convictions led them to write these plays against all odds that they would ever be published or performed, but moral urgency, combined with a natural talent for the dramatic, has emerged triumphant in this collection.

37

William Wells Brown (1814-1884)

38

Abolitionist, author, and professional lecturer, William Wells Brown was born a slave on the plantation of John Young, a physician, near Lexington, Kentucky, He was the youngest child of a mulatto mother, Elizabeth, who had borne six other children. According to her account, he was fathered by George Higgins, a first cousin of Young's. In 1816, Young moved his entire establishment to St. Louis, where Brown spent his first twenty years as the property of three successive owners. During those years, he worked as a house servant; an apprentice to Elijah Lovejoy, the editor of the St. Louis Times; a deck hand on a Mississippi riverboat; an assistant in Young's medical office; and a factotum to James Walker, a Missouri slave trader whom he accompanied occasionally to the New Orleans flesh markets. In 1834, Brown escaped from bondage in Cincinnati. En route to Canada, he was helped by a Quaker named Wells Brown, whose name he adopted. Instead of going to Canada, he found his way to Cleveland, married Elizabeth Schooner, and had three daughters (the youngest, Josephine, would become his biographer). He settled his family in Buffalo, and after nine years moved near Rochester, where he joined the Underground Railway and worked as a steward on Lake

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

Erie steamers. About 1848, he moved to Boston and, except for the five years he spent abroad, lived there for the remainder of his life, part of it with his second wife, Annie Elizabeth Gray of Cambridge. He began to travel extensively as an abolitionist lecturer (he delivered more than a thousand antislavery lectures in England alone) and fought for prison reform and women's suffrage. He had studied medicine abroad, and after the Civil War, he opened a practice in Chelsea, a Boston suburb. However, he devoted much of his time to promoting the causes he believed in. He first gained recognition as a writer through his autobiography, The Narrative of William W. Brown (1847; recently reprinted by Addison-Wesley). He was the second Black American to publish a novel (Clotelle: or the Presidents Daughter, 1867, presumably the story of Jefferson's relationship with his slave, Sally Hemings), the first to publish a play {The Escape, 1858), and the first to publish a travel book [Three Years in Europe; or Places I Have Seen and People I Have Met, 1852). Most notable among his other works are his three-act antislavery drama, Experience; or, How to Give a Northern Man a Backbone (1856); St. Domingo: Its Revolutions and Its Patriots (1855); The Negro in the American Rebellion: His Heroism and His Fidelity (1867); and his last book, My Southern Home; or, the South and Its People (1880). The first black author to earn his living through writing, he published prolifically in all genres. The Escape was written and published in 1858 but introduced to the public in a reading Brown gave in Salem, Ohio, on February 4, 1847. His lectures delivered throughout the North were occasions for the reading of his plays, which, according to Doris Abramson, were probably never performed on the stage (in all likelihood, Pauline Hopkins was present on one of these occasions). It must have taken courage to express sympathy for escaping slaves at a time when they were regarded as criminal fugitives anywhere in United States territory. Despite its minor weaknesses as drama, the play carries an honest message of im-

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

portance and anticipates by some thirty-three years Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins's musical drama, Peculiar Sam, or The Underground Railroad, which would win the playwright's award from the Congregational Publishing Society of Boston. Reflecting both the abolitionist fervor and the keen native wit of its author, The Escape combines sharp satire aimed at the slave owners and their whipwielding wives, the human flesh markets, the fraudulent medical practitioners, and the cooperative Uncle Toms, with the sometimes incongruous melodrama of Kentucky plantation life. If the language of Glen and Melinda, the hero and heroine of the piece, sounds excessively rhetorical, it is probably because Brown chose this way to indicate that they had been exposed to some education, just as Brown, who had been the playmate of his master's son, had himself gained some advantages early in life. Oddly enough, the last word is not left to Glen or Melinda, or even to Cato, the reformed Uncle Tom, but to "Mr. White," the northerner who acts fearlessly in behalf of the escaping slaves, probably a reflection of William Brown's faith in the courage and conviction of his abolitionist friends such as Wells Brown, William Lloyd Garrison, and Wendell Phillips. The most poignant lines in the play resound in the lines of Cato's song, "I've not committed any crime, why should I run away? / Oh, shame upon your laws, dat drive me off to Canada." Opinions of the press in Philadelphia and in various New York towns are quoted at the end of the published version of the play. Though one critic harshly characterized it as "laughable," the play is invaluable as a document poignantly dramatizing the actual experiences of a former slave. References Abramson, Doris E. Negro Playwrights in American Theatre 1925-1959. New York: Columbia University Press, 1969, pp. 8-14, 18-19.

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

Brown, Josephine. Biography of an American Bondsman. Boston: Walcutt, 1855. Coleman, Edward M. "William Wells Brown as an Historian." Journal oj Negro History 31 (1946): 4 7 49. Farrison, W. Edward. "A Flight across Ohio: The Escape of William Wells Brown from Slavery." Ohio State Archeological and Historical Quarterly 61 (1952): 272-82. . William Wells Brown, Author and Reformer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969. Heermance, Joel. William Wells Brown and Clotelle, A Portrait of the Artist in the First Negro Novel. Hamden, Conn.: Archon, 1969. Hopkins, Pauline. "William Wells Brown." Colored American Magazine 2 (1901): 232-36. Margolies, Edward. "Ante-Bellum Slave Narratives: Their Place in American Literature." Studies in Black Literature 4 (Autumn 1973): 1-8. Pawley, Thomas D. "The First Black Playwrights." Black World (April 1972): 6-24. Phillips, Porter Williams. W. W. Brown, Host. New York: Fleming H. Revel, 1941.

41

The Escape: or, A Leap for Freedom William Wells Brown PLAYWRIGHT'S PREFACE This play was written for my own amusement, and not with the remotest thought that it would ever be seen by the public eye. I read it privately, however, to a circle of my friends, and through them was invited to read it to a Literary Society. Since then, the drama has been given in various parts of the country. By the earnest solicitation of some in whose judgment I have the greatest confidence, I now present it in a printed form to the public. As I never aspired to be a dramatist, I ask no favor for it, and have little or no solicitude for its fate. If it is not readable, no word of mine can make it so; if it is, to ask favor for it would be needless. The main features in the drama are true. Glenn and Melinda are actual characters, and still reside in Canada. Many of the incidents are drawn from my own experience of eighteen years at the South. The marriage ceremony, as performed in the second act, is still adhered to in many of the southern states, especially in the farming districts. The ignorance of the slave, as seen in the case of Big Sally, is common wherever chattel slavery exists. 42

Originally published in Boston by P. F. Wallcut, 1858.

THE ESCAPE

The difficulties created in the domestic circle by the presence of beautiful slave women, as found in Dr. Gaines's family is well understood by all who have ever visited the valley of the Mississippi. The play, no doubt, abounds in defects, but as I was born in slavery, and never had a day's schooling in my life, I owe the public no apology for errors. W. W. B.

CHARACTERS REPRESENTED MR. CAMPBELL* slave owner and DR. GAINES, proprietor of the farm

Creek

neighbor at Muddy

REV. JOHN PINCHEN, a clergyman DICK WALKER, a slave speculator MR. WILDMARSH, neighbor to Dr. Gaines MAJOR MOORE, a friend of Dr. Gaines MR. WHITE, a citizen of Massachusetts BILL JENNINGS, a slave speculator JACOB SCRAGG, overseer to Dr. Gaines MRS. GAINES, wife of Dr. Gaines MR. AND MRS. NEAL, AND DAUGHTER, Quakers,

in

Ohio

THOMAS, Mr. Neal's hired man GLEN, slave of Mr. Hamilton, brother-in-law

Dr. Gaines

of

CATO, SAM, SAMPET, BOB, MELINDA, DOLLT, SUSAN, AND BIG SALLT, slaves of Dr. Gaines PETE, NED, AND BILL, Slaves TAPIOCA, mulatto slave girl OFFICERS, LOUNGERS, BARKEEPER, PEDLARS, ETC.

ACT ONE Scene One (A Sitting-Room. MRS. GAINES, looking at some drawings—SAMPEY, a white slave, stands behind the lady's chair. Enter DR. GAINES, right)

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44

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN DR. GAINES: Well, my dear, my practice is steadily increasing. I forgot to tell you that neighbor Wyman engaged me yesterday as his family physician; and I hope that the fever and ague, which is now taking hold of the people, will give me more patients. I see by the New Orleans papers that the yellow fever is raging there to a fearful extent. Men of my profession are reaping a harvest in that section this year. I would that we could have a touch of the yellow fever here, for I think I could invent a medicine that would cure it. But the yellow fever is a luxury that we medical men in this climate can't expect to enjoy; yet we may hope for the cholera. MRS. GAINES: Yes, I would be glad to see it more sickly here, so that your business might prosper. But we are always unfortunate. Every body here seems to be in good health, and I am afraid that they'll keep so. However, we must hope for the best. We must trust in the Lord. Providence may possibly send some disease among us for our benefit.

(Enter

CATO,

CATO:

right)

Mr. Campbell is at de door, massa. Ask him in, Cato.

DR. GAINES:

(Enter

MR. CAMPBELL,

right)

Good morning, Mr. Campbell. Be seated. Good morning, doctor. The same to you, Mrs. Gaines. Fine morning, this. MRS. GAINES: Yes, sir; beautiful day. MR. CAMPBELL: Well, doctor, I've come to engage you for my family physician. I am tired of Dr. Jones. I've lost another very valuable nigger under his treatment; and, as my old mother used to say, "change of pastures makes fat calves." DR. GAINES: I shall be most happy to become your doctor. Of course, you want me to attend to your niggers, as well as to your family? MR. CAMPBELL: Certainly, sir. I have twenty-three servants. What will you charge me by the year? DR. GAINES:

MR. CAMPBELL:

THE ESCAPE DR. GAINBS: Of course, you'll do as my other patients do, send your servants to me when they are sick, if able to walk? MR. CAMPBELL: Oh, yes; I always do that. DR. GAINES: Then I suppose 111 have to lump it, and say $500 per annum. MR. CAMPBELL: Well, then, well consider that matter settled; and as two of the boys are sick, 111 send them over. So 111 bid you good day, doctor. I would be glad if you would come over some time, and bring Mrs. Gaines with you. DR. GAINES: Yes, I will; and shall be glad if you will pay us a visit, and bring with you Mrs. Campbell. Come over and spend the day. MR. CAMPBELL: I will. Good morning, doctor, (exit MR. CAMPBELL, right) DR. GAINES: There, my dear, what do you think of that? Five hundred dollars more added to our income. That's patronage worth having! And I am glad to get all the negroes I can to doctor, for Cato is becoming very useful to me in the shop. He can bleed, pull teeth, and do almost any thing that the blacks require. He can put up medicine as well as any one. A valuable boy, Cato! MRS. GAINES: But why did you ask Mr. Campbell to visit you, and to bring his wife? I am sure I could never consent to associate with her, for I understand that she was the daughter of a tanner. You must remember, my dear, that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. The blood of the Wyleys runs in my veins. I am surprised that you should ask him to visit you at all; you should have known better. DR. GAINES: Oh, I did not mean for him to visit me. I only invited him for the sake of compliments, and I think he so understood it; for I should be far from wishing you to associate with Mrs. Campbell. I don't forget, my dear, the family you were raised in, nor do I overlook my own family. My father, you know, fought by the side of Washington, and I hope some day to have a handle to my own name. I am certain Provi-

45

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

dence intended me for something higher than a medical man. Ah! by-the-by, I had forgotten that I have a couple of patients to visit this morning. I must go at once, (exit DR. GAINES, right) (Enter

HANNAH,

left)

MRS. GAINES: GO, Hannah, and tell Dolly to kill a couple of fat pullets, and to put the biscuit to rise. I expect brother Pinchen here this afternoon, and I want everything in order. Hannah, Hannah, tell Melinda to come here, (exit HANNAH, left) We mistresses do have a hard time in this world; I don't see why the Lord should have imposed such heavy duties on us poor mortals. Well, it can't last always. I long to leave this wicked world, and go home to glory, (enter MELINDA) I am to have company this afternoon, Melinda. I expect brother Pinchen here, and I want every thing in order. Go and get one of my new caps, with the lace border, and get out my scolloped-bottomed dimity petticoat, and when you go out, tell Hannah to clean the whitehandled knives, and see that not a speck is on them; for I want every thing as it should be while brother Pinchen is here, (exit MRS. GAINES, left, MELINDA, right)

Scene Two (Doctor's shop—CATO making pills. Enter DR. GAINES, left) DR. GAINES: Well, Cato, have you made the batch of ointment that I ordered? CATO: Yes, massa; I dun made de intment, an' now I is making the bread pills. De tater pills is up on the top shelf. DR. GAINES: I am going out to see some patients. If any gentlemen call, tell them I shall be in this afternoon. If any servants come, you attend to them. I expect two of Mr. Campbell's boys over. You see to them. Feel their pulse, look at their tongues, bleed them, and give them each a dose of calomel. Tell them to drink no cold water, and to take nothing but water gruel.

THE ESCAPE CATO: Yes, massa; 111 tend to 'em. (exit DR. GAINES, left) I allers knowed I was a doctor, an' now de ole boss has put me at it, I muss change my coat. Ef any niggers comes in, I wants to look suspectable. Dis jacket don't suit a doctor; 111 change it. (exit CATO—immediately returning in a long coat) Ah! now I looks like a doctor. Now I can bleed, pull teef, or cut off a leg. Oh! well, well, ef I aint put de pill stuff an' de intment stuff togedder. By golly, dat ole cuss will be mad when he finds it out, won't he? Nebber mind, I'll make it up in pills, and when de flour is on dem, he won't know what's in 'em; an' I'll make some new intment. Ah! yonder comes Mr. Campbell's Pete an' Ned; dems de ones massa sed was comin'. I'll see ef I looks right. (goes to the looking-glass and views himself) I em some punkins, ain't I? (knock at the door) Come in.

(Enter PETE and NED, right) PETE: Whar

is de doctor? I is; don't you see me? PETE: But whar is de ole boss? CATO: Dat's none you business. I dun tole you dat I is de doctor, an dat's enuff. NED: Oh! do tell us whar de doctor is. I is almos dead. Oh me! oh dear me! I is so sick, (horrible faces) PETE: Yes, do tell us; we don't want to stan here foolin'. CATO: I tells you again dat I is de doctor. I larn de trade under massa. NED: Oh! well, den, give me somethin' to stop dis pain. Oh dear me! I shall die. (he tries to vomit, but can't—ugly faces) CATO: Let me feel your pulse. Now put out your tongue. You is berry sick. Ef you don't mine, you'll die. Come out in de shed, an' I'll bleed you. (exit all—reenter) Dar, now take dese pills, two in de mornin' and two at night, and ef you don't feel better, double de dose. Now, Mr. Pete, what's de matter wid you? PETE: I got de cole chills, an' has a fever in de night. CATO: Here

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN CATO: Come out, an' 111 bleed you. (exit all—reenter) Now take dese pills, two in de mornin' and two at night, an' ef dey don't help you, double de dose. Ah! I like to forget to feel your pulse and look at your tongue. Put out your tongue, (feels his pulse) Yes, I tells by de feel ob your pulse dat I is gib you de right pills, (enter Mr. Parker's BILL, left) What you come in dat door widout knockin' for? BILL: My toof ache so, I didn't tink to knock. Oh, my toof! my toof! Whar is de doctor? CATO: Here I is; don't you see me? BILL: What! you de doctor, you brack cuss! You looks like a doctor! Oh, my toof! my toof! Whar is de doctor? CATO: I tells you I is de doctor. Ef you don't believe me, ax dese men. I can pull your toof in a minnit. BILL: Well, den, pull it out. Oh, my toof! how it aches! Oh, my toof! (CATO gets the rusty turnkeys) CATO: NOW lay down on your back. BILL: What for? CATO: Dat's de way massa does. BILL: Oh, my toof! Well, den, come on. (lies down, CATO gets astraddle of BILL'S breast puts the turnkeys on the wrong tooth, and pulls— BILL kicks, and cries out) Oh, do stop! Oh! oh! oh! (CATO pulls the wrong tooth—BILL jumps up) CATO: Dar, now, I tole you I could pull your toof for you. BILL: Oh, dear me! Oh, it aches yet! Oh me! Oh, Loremassy! You dun pull de wrong toof. Drat your skin! ef I don't pay you for this, you brack cuss! (they fight and turn over table, chairs and bench—PETE and NED look on. Enter DR. GAINES, right) DR. GAINES: Why, dear me, what's the matter? What's all this about? I'll teach you a lesson, that I will, (the DOCTOR goes at them with his cane) CATO: Oh, massa! he's to blame, sir. He's to blame. He struck me fuss. BILL: NO, sir; he's to blame; he pull de wrong toof. Oh, my toof! oh, my toof!

THE ESCAPE DR. GAINES: Let me see your tooth. Open your mouth. As I live, you've taken out the wrong tooth. I am amazed. Ill whip you for this; 111 whip you well. You're a pretty doctor. Now lie down, Bill, and let him take out the right tooth; and if he makes a mistake this time, 111 cowhide him well. Lie down, Bill, (BILL lies down, and CATO pulls the tooth) There now, why didn't you do that in the first place? CATO: He wouldn't hole still, sir. BILL: He lies, sir. I did hole still. DR. GAINES: NOW go home, boys; go home, (exit PETE, NED, and BILL, left) DR. GAINES: You've made a pretty muss of it, in my absence. Look at the table! Never mind, Cato; 111 whip you well for this conduct of yours today. Go to work now, and clear up the office, (exit DR. GAINES, right) CATO: Confound dat nigger! I wish he was in Ginny. He bite my finger and scratch my face. But didn't I give it to him? Well, den, I reckon I did. (he goes to the mirror, and discovers that his coat is torn— weeps) Oh, dear me! Oh, my coat—my coat is tore! Dat nigger has tore my coat, (he gets angry, and rushes about the room frantic) Cuss dat nigger! Ef I could lay my hands on him, I'd tare him all to pieces— dat I would. An' de ole boss hit me wid his cane after dat nigger tore my coat. By golly, I wants to fight somebody. Ef ole massa should come in now, I'd fight him. (rolls up his sleeves) Let 'em come now, ef dey dare—ole massa, or any body else; I'm ready for 'em.

(Enter DR. GAINES, right) What's all this noise here? Nuffin', sir; only jess I is puttin' things to rights, as you tole me. I didn't hear any noise except de rats. DR. GAINES: Make haste, and come in; I want you to go to town, (exit DR. GAINES, right) CATO: By golly, de ole boss like to cotch me dat time, didn't he? But wasn't I mad? When I is mad, nobody can do nuffin' wid me. But here's my coat, tore to DR. GAINES: CATO:

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pieces. Cuss dat nigger! (weeps) Oh, my coat! oh, my coat! I rudder he had broke my head den to tore my coat. Drat dat nigger! Ef he ever comes here agin, 111 pull out every toof he's got in his head—dat I will.

(exit right)

Scene Three (A room in the quarters. Enter

GLEN,

left)

GLEN: HOW slowly the time passes away. I've been waiting here two hours, and Melinda has not yet come. What keeps her, I cannot tell. I waited long and late for her last night, and when she approached, I sprang to my feet, caught her in my arms, pressed her to my heart, and kissed away the tears from her moistened cheeks. She placed her trembling hand in mine, and said, "Glen, I am yours; I will never be the wife of another." I clasped her to my bosom, and called God to witness that I would ever regard her as my wife. Old Uncle Joseph joined us in holy wedlock by moonlight; that was the only marriage ceremony. I look upon the vow as ever binding on me, for I am sure that a just God will sanction our union in heaven. Still, this man, who claims Melinda as his property, is unwilling for me to marry the woman of my choice, because he wants her himself. But he shall not have her. What he will say when he finds that we are married, I cannot tell; but I am determined to protect my wife or die. Ah! here comes Melinda. (enter MELINDA, right) I am glad to see you, Melinda. IVe been waiting long, and feared you would not come. Ah! in tears again? MBLINDA: Glen, you are always thinking I am in tears. But what did master say today? GLEN: He again forbade our union. MELINDA: Indeed! Can he be so cruel? GLEN: Yes, he can be just so cruel. MELINDA: Alas! alas! how unfeeling and heartless! But did you appeal to his generosity? GLEN: Yes, I did; I used all the persuasive powers that I was master of, but to no purpose; he was inflex-

THE ESCAPE

ible. He even offered me a new suit of clothes, if I would give you up; and when I told him that I could not, he said he would flog me to death if I ever spoke to you again. MELINDA: And what did you say to him? GLEN: I answered that, while I loved life better than death, even life itself could not tempt me to consent to a separation that would make life an unchanging curse. Oh, I would kill myself, Melinda, if I thought that, for the sake of life, I could consent to your degradation. No, Melinda, I can die, but shall never live to see you the mistress of another man. But, my dear girl, I have a secret to tell you, and no one must know it but you. I will go out and see that no person is within hearing. I will be back soon, (exit GLEN, left) MELINDA: It is often said that the darkest hour of the night precedes the dawn. It is ever thus with the vicissitudes of human suffering. After the soul has reached the lowest depths of despair, and can no deeper plunge amid its rolling, fetid shades, then the reactionary forces of man's nature begin to operate, resolution takes the place of despondency, energy succeeds instead of apathy, and an upward tendency is felt and exhibited. Men then hope against power, and smile in defiance of despair. I shall never forget when first I saw Glen. It is now more than a year since he came here with his master, Mr. Hamilton. It was a glorious moonlight night in autumn. The Wide and fruitful face of nature was silent and buried in repose. The tall trees on the borders of Muddy Creek waved their leafy branches in the breeze, which was wafted from afar, refreshing over hill and vale, over the rippling water, and the waving corn and wheat fields. The starry sky was studded over with a few light, flitting clouds, while the moon, as if rejoicing to witness the meeting of two hearts that should be cemented by the purest love, sailed triumphantly along among the shifting vapors. Oh, how happy I have been in my acquaintance with Glen! That he loves me, I do well believe it; that I love

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him, it is most true. Oh, how I would that those who think the slave incapable of the finer feelings could only see our hearts, and learn our thoughts—thoughts that we dare not utter in the presence of our masters! But I fear that Glen will be separated from me, for there is nothing too base and mean for master to do, for the purpose of getting me entirely in his power. But, thanks to Heaven, he does not own Glen, and therefore cannot sell him. Yet he might purchase him from his brother-in-law, so as to send him out of the way. But here comes my husband. (Enter

GLEN,

left)

GLEN: I've been as far as the overseer's house, and all is quiet. Now, Melinda, as you are my wife, I will confide to you a secret. I've long been thinking of making my escape to Canada, and taking you with me. It is true that I don't belong to your master, but he might buy me from Hamilton, and then sell me out of the neighborhood. MELINDA: But we could never succeed in the attempt to escape. GLEN: We will make the trial, and show that we at least deserve success. There is a slave trader expected here next week, and Dr. Gaines would sell you at once if he knew that we were married. We must get ready and start, and if we can pass the Ohio river, we'll be safe on the road to Canada, (exit, right)

Scene Four (Dining room. REV. MR. PINCHEN giving MRS. GAINES an account of his experience as a minister— HANNAH clearing away the breakfast table—SAMPEY standing behind MRS. GAINES'S chair) GAINES: NOW, do give me more of your experience, brother Pinchen. It always does my soul good to hear religious experience. It draws me nearer and nearer to the Lord's side. I do love to hear good news from God's people.

THE ESCAPE MR. PINCHEN: Well, sister Gaines, IVe had great opportunities in my time to study the heart of man. IVe attended a great many camp-meetings, revival meetings, protracted meetings, and death-bed scenes, and I am satisfied, sister Gaines, that the heart of man is full of sin, and desperately wicked. This is a wicked world, sister Gaines, a wicked world. MRS. GAINES: Were you ever in Arkansas, brother Pinchen? IVe been told that the people out there are very ungodly. MR. PINCHEN: Oh, yes, sister Gaines. I once spent a year at Little Rock, and preached in all the towns round about there; and I found some hard cases out there, I can tell you. I was once spending a week in a district where there were a great many horse thieves, and one night, somebody stole my pony. Well, I knowed it was no use to make a fuss, so I told brother Tarbox to say nothing about it, and I'd get my horse by preaching God's everlasting gospel; for I had faith in the truth, and knowed that my Savior would not let me lose my pony. So the next Sunday I preached on horse-stealing, and told the brethren to come up in the evenin' with their hearts filled with the grace of God. So that night the house was crammed brim full with anxious souls, panting for the bread of life. Brother Bingham opened with prayer, and brother Tarbox followed, and I saw right off that we were gwirie to have a blessed time. After I got 'em pretty well warmed up, I jumped on to one of the seats, stretched out my hands, and said, "I know who stole my pony; I've found out; and you are in here tryin' to make people believe that you've got religion; but you ain't got it. And if you don't take my horse back to brother Tarbox's pasture this very night, I'll tell your name right out in meetin' tomorrow night. Take my pony back, you vile and wretched sinner, and come up here and give your heart to God." So the next mornin', I went out to brother Tarbox's pasture, and sure enough, there was my bob-tail pony. Yes, sister Gaines, there he was, safe and sound. Ha, ha, ha.

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, GAINES: Oh, how interesting, and how fortunate for you to get your pony! And what power there is in the gospel! God's children are very lucky. Oh, it is so sweet to sit here and listen to such good news from God's people! You Hannah, what are you standing there listening for, and neglecting your work? Never mind, my lady, 111 whip you well when I am done here. Go at your work this moment you lazy huzzy! Never mind, 111 whip you well, (aside) Come, do go on, brother Pinchen, with your godly conversation. It is so sweet! It draws me nearer and nearer to the Lord's side. MR. PINCHEN: Well, sister Gaines, I've had some mighty queer dreams in my time, that I have. You see, one night I dreamed that I was dead and in heaven, and such a place I never saw before. As soon as I entered the gates of the celestial empire, I saw many old and familiar faces that I had seen before. The first person that I saw was good old Elder Pike, the preacher that first called my attention to religion. The next person I saw was Deacon Billings, my first wife's father, and then I saw a host of godly faces. Why, sister Gaines, you knowed Elder Goosbee, didn't you? MRS. GAINES: Why, yes; did you see him there? He married me to my first husband. MR. PINCHEN: Oh, yes, sister Gaines, I saw the old Elder, and he looked for all the world as if he had just come out of a revival meetin'. MRS. GAINES: Did you see my first husband there, brother Pinchen? MR. PINCHEN: NO, sister Gaines, I didn't see brother Pepper there; but I've no doubt but that brother Pepper was there. MRS. GAINES: Well, I don't know; I have my doubts. He was not the happiest man in the world. He was always borrowing trouble about something or another. Still, I saw some happy moments with Mr. Pepper. I was happy when I made his acquaintance, happy during our courtship, happy a while after our marriage, and happy when he died, (weeps)

THE ESCAPE HANNAH: Massa Pinchen, did you see my old man Ben up dar in hebben? MR. PINCHEN: NO, Hannah; I didn't go amongst the niggers. MRS. GAINES: No, of course brother Pinchen didn't go among the blacks. What are you asking questions for? Never mind, my lady, I'll whip you well when I'm done here. I'll skin you from head to foot, (aside) Do go on with your heavenly conversation, brother Pinchen; it does my very soul good. This is indeed a precious moment for me. I do love to hear of Christ and Him crucified. MR. PINCHEN: Well, sister Gaines, I promised sister Daniels that I'd come over and see her this morning, and have a little season of prayer with her, and I suppose I must go. I'll tell you more of my religious experience when I return. MRS. GAINES: If you must go, then I'll have to let you; but before you do, I wish to get your advice upon a little matter that concerns Hannah. Last week, Hannah stole a goose, killed it, cooked it, and she and her man Sam had a fine time eating the goose; and her master and I would never have known a word about it, if it had not been for Cato, a faithful servant, who told his master. And then, you see, Hannah had to be severely whipped before she'd confess that she stole the goose. Next Sabbath is sacrament day, and I want to know if you think that Hannah is fit to go to the Lord's supper after stealing the goose. MR. PINCHEN: Well, sister Gaines, that depends on circumstances. If Hannah has confessed that she stole the goose, and has been sufficiently whipped, and has begged her master's pardon, and begged your pardon, and thinks she'll never do the like again, why then I suppose she can go to the Lord's supper; for

While the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return. But she must be sure that she has repented, and won't steal any more.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN GAINES: Now, Hannah, do you hear that? For my own part, I don't think she's fit to go to the Lord's supper, for she had no occasion to steal the goose. We give our niggers plenty of good wholesome food. They have a full run to the meal tub, meat once a fortnight, and all the sour milk about the place, and I'm sure that's enough for any one. I do think that our niggers are the most ungrateful creatures in the world, that I do. They aggravate my life out of me. HANNAH: I know, missis, dat I steal de goose, and massa whip me for it, and I confess it, and I is sorry for it. But, missis, I is gwine to de Lord's supper, next Sunday, kase I ain't agwine to turn my back on my bressed Lord an' Massa for no old tough goose, dat I ain't, (weeps) MR. PINCHEN: Well, sister Gaines, I suppose I must go over and see sister Daniels; she'll be waiting for me. (exit MR. PINCHEN,

center)

MRS. GAINES: NOW, Hannah, brother Pinchen is gone, do you get the cowhide and follow me to the cellar, and I'll whip you well for aggravating me as you have today. It seems as if I can never sit down to take a little comfort with the Lord, without you crossing me. The devil always puts it into your head to disturb me, just when I am trying to serve the Lord. I've no doubt but that I'll miss going to heaven on your account. But I'll whip you well before I leave this world, that I will. Get the cowhide and follow me to the cellar, (exit MRS. GAINES

and HANNAH, right)

ACT TWO Scene One (Parlor, DR. GAINES at a table, letters and papers before him. Enter SAMPEY, left) SAMPET: Dar's a gemman at de doe, massa, dat wants to see you, seer.

THE ESCAPE DR. GAINES:

left)

Ask him to walk in, Sampey. (exit SAMPEY,

(Enter WALKER) WALKER: Why, how do you do, Dr. Gaines? I em glad to see you, 111 swear. DR. GAINES: HOW do you do, Mr. Walker? I did not expect to see you up here so soon. What has hurried you? WALKER: Well, you see, doctor, I comes when I em not expected. The price of niggers is up, and I em gwine to take advantage of the times. Now, doctor, ef youVe got any niggers that you wants to sell, I em your man. I am paying the highest price of any body in the market. I pay cash down; and no grumblin'. DR. GAINES: I don't know that I want to sell any of my people now. Still, IVe got to make up a little money next month, to pay in bank; and another thing, the doctors say that we are likely to have a touch of the cholera this summer, and if that's the case, I suppose I had better turn as many of my slaves into cash as I can. WALKER: Yes, doctor, that is very true. The cholera is death on slaves, and a thousand dollars in your pocket is a great deal better than a nigger in the field, with cholera at his heels. Why, who is that coming up the lane? It's Mr. Wildmarsh as I live! Jest the very man I wants to see. (enter MR. WILDMARSHJ Why, how do you do, Squire? I was jest thinkin' about you. WILDMARSH: HOW are you, Mr. Walker? and how are you, doctor? I am glad to see you both looking so well. You seem in remarkably good health, doctor? DR. GAINES: Yes, Squire, I was never in the enjoyment of better health. I hope you left all well at Licking? WILDMARSH: Yes, I thank you. And now, Mr. Walker, how goes times with you? WALKER: Well, you see, Squire, I em in good spirits. The price of niggers is up in the market, and I am lookin' out for bargains; and I was jest intendin' to come over to Lickin' to see you, to see if you had any

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niggers to sell. But it seems as ef the Lord knowed that I wanted to see you, and directed your steps over here. Now, Squire, ef you've got any niggers you wants to sell, I em your man. I am payin' the highest cash price of any body in the market. Now's your time, Squire. V WILDMARSH: NO, 1 don't think 1 want to sell any of my slaves now. I sold a very valuable gal to Mr. Haskins last week. I tell you, she was a smart one. I got eighteen hundred dollars for her. WALKER: Why, Squire, how you do talk! Eighteen hundred dollars for one gal? She must have been a screamer to bring that price. What sort of a lookin' critter was she? I should like to have bought her. WILDMARSH: She was a little of the smartest gal I've ever raised; that she was. WALKER: Then she was your own raising, was she? WILDMARSH: Oh, yes; she was raised on my place, and if I could have kept her three or four years longer, and taken her to the market myself, I am sure I could have sold her for three thousand dollars. But you see, Mr. Walker, my wife got a little jealous, and you know jealousy sets women's heads a teetering, and so I had to sell the gal. She's got straight hair, blue eyes, prominent features, and is almost white. Haskins will make a spec, and no mistake. WALKER: Why, Squire, was she that pretty little gal that I saw on your knee the day that your wife was gone, when I was at your place three years ago? WILDMARSH: Yes, the same. WALKER: Well, now, Squire, I thought that was your daughter; she looked mightily like you. She was your daughter, wasn't she? You need not be ashamed to own it to me, for I am mum upon such matters. WILDMARSH: YOU know, Mr. Walker, that people will talk, and when they talk, they say a great deal; and people did talk, and many said the gal was my daughter; and you know we can't help people's talking. But here comes the Rev. Mr. Pinchen; I didn't know that he was in the neighborhood.

THE ESCAPE WALKER: It is Mr. Pinchen, as I live; jest the very man I wants to see. (enter MR. PINCHEN, right) Why, how do you do, Mr. Pinchen? What in the name of Jehu brings you down here to Muddy Creek? Any campmeetins, revival meetins, death-bed scenes, or any thing else in your line going on down here? How is religion prosperin' now, Mr. Pinchen? I always like to hear about religion. MR. PINCHEN: Well, Mr. Walker, the Lord's work is in good condition everywhere now. I tell you, Mr. Walker, IVe been in the gospel ministry these thirteen years, and I am satisfied that the heart of man is full of sin and desperately wicked. This is a wicked world, Mr. Walker, a wicked world, and we ought all of us to have religion. Religion is a good thing to live by, and we all want it when we die. Yes, sir, when the great trumpet blows, we ought to be ready. And a man in your business of bujang and selling slaves needs religion more than anybody else, for it makes you treat your people as you should. Now, there is Mr. Haskins—he is a slave-trader, like yourself. Well, I converted him. Before he got religion, he was one of the worst men to his niggers I ever saw; his heart was as hard as stone. But religion has made his heart as soft as a piece of cotton. Before I converted him, he would sell husbands from their wives, and seem to take delight in it; but now he won't sell a man from his wife, if he can get any one to buy both of them together. I tell you, sir, religion has done a wonderful work for him. WALKER: I know, Mr. Pinchen, that I ought to have religion, and I feel that I am a great sinner; and whenever I get with good pious people like you and the doctor, and Mr. Wildmarsh, it always makes me feel that I am a desperate sinner. I feel it the more, because IVe got a religious turn of mind. I know that I would be happier with religion, and the first spare time I get, I am going to try to get it. Ill go to a protracted meeting, and I won't stop till I get religion. Yes, I'll scuffle with the Lord till I gets forgiven. But it always makes me feel bad to talk about religion, so I'll change the

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subject. Now, doctor, what about them thar niggers you thought you could sell me? DR. GAINES: 111 see my wife, Mr. Walker, and if she is willing to part with Hannah, 111 sell you Sam and his wife, Hannah. Ah! here comes my wife; 111 mention it. (enter MRS. GAINES, left) Ah! my dear, I am glad you've come. I was just telling Mr. Walker, that if you were willing to part with Hannah, I'd sell him Sam and Hannah. MRS. GAINES: NOW, Dr. Gaines, I am astonished and surprised that you should think of such a thing. You know what trouble IVe had in training up Hannah for a house servant, and now that I've got her so that she knows my ways, you want to sell her. Haven't you niggers enough on the plantation to sell, without selling the servants from under my very nose? DR. GAINES: Oh, yes, my dear; but I can spare Sam, and I don't like to separate him from his wife; and I thought if you could let Hannah go, I'd sell them both. I don't like to separate husbands from their wives. MRS. GAINES: NOW, gentlemen, that's just the way with my husband. He thinks more about the welfare and comfort of his slaves than he does of himself or his family. I am sure you need not feel so bad at the thought of separating Sam from Hannah. They've only been married eight months, and their attachment can't be very strong in that short time. Indeed, I shall be glad if you do sell Sam, for then 111 make Hannah jump the broomstick [marry] with Cato, and I'll have them both here under my eye. I never will again let one of my house servants marry a field hand—never! For when night comes on, the servants are off to the quarters, and I have to holler and holler enough to split my throat before I can make them hear. And another thing: I want you to sell Melinda. I don't intend to keep that mulatto wench about the house any longer. DR. GAINES: My dear, I'll sell any servant from the place to suit you, except Melinda. I can't think of selling her—I can't think of it.

THE ESCAPE GAINES: I tell you that Melinda shall leave this house, or 111 go. There, now you have it. I've had my life tormented out of me by the presence of that yellow wench, and 111 stand it no longer. I know you love her more than you do me, and 111—111—111 write—write to my father, (weeps, exit MRS. GAINES, left) WALKER: Why, doctor, your wife's a screamer, ain't she? Ha, ha, ha. Why, doctor, she's got a tongue of her own, ain't she? Why, doctor, it was only last week that I thought of getting a wife myself; but your wife has skeered the idea out of my head. Now, doctor, if you wants to sell the gal, 111 buy her. Husband and wife ought to be on good terms, and your wife won't feel well till the gal is gone. Now, 111 pay you all she's worth, if you wants to sell. DR. GAINES: NO, Mr. Walker; the girl my wife spoke of is not for sale. My wife does not mean what she says; she's only a little jealous. I'll get brother Pinchen to talk to her, and get her mind turned upon religious matters, and then shell forget it. She's only a little jealous. WALKER: I tell you what, doctor, ef you call that a little jealous, I'd like to know what's a heap. I tell you, it will take something more than religion to set your wife right. You had better sell me the gal; I'll pay you cash down, and no grumblin'. DR. GAINES: The girl is not for sale, Mr. Walker; but if you want two good, able-bodied servants, 111 sell you Sam and Big Sally. Sam is trustworthy, and Sally is worth her weight in gold for rough usage. WALKER: Well, doctor, 111 go out and take a look at 'em, for I never buys slaves without examining them well, because they are sometimes injured by overwork or underfeedin'. I don't say that is the case with yours, for I don't believe it is; but as I sell on honor, I must buy on honor. DR. GAINES: Walk out, sir, and you can examine them to your heart's content. Walk right out, sir.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

Scene Two (View in front of the Great House. Examination of SAM and

BIG SALLY—DR. GAINES, WILDMARSH, MR. PINCHEN,

WALKER

present)

and

Well, my boy, what's your name? SAM: Sam, sir, is my name. WALKER: HOW old are you, Sam? SAM: Ef I live to see next corn plantin' time, 111 be 27, or 30, or 35, or 40—I don't know which, sir. WALKER: Ha, ha, ha. Well, doctor, this is rather a green boy. Well, mer feller, are you sound? SAM: Yes, sir, I spec I is. WALKER: Open your mouth and let me see your teeth. I alters judge a nigger's age by his teeth, same as I dose a hoss. Ah! pretty good set of grinders. Have you got a good appetite? SAM: Yes, sir. WALKER: Can you eat your allowance? SAM: Yes, sir, when I can get it. WALKER: Get out on the floor and dance; I want to see if you are supple. SAM: I don't like to dance; I is got religion. WALKER: Oh, ho! you've got religion, have you? That's so much the better, I likes to deal in the gospel. I think he'll suit me. Now, mer gal, what's your name? SALLY: I is Big Sally, sir. WALKER: HOW old are you, Sally? SALLY: I don't know, sir; but I heard once dat I was born at sweet pertater diggin' time. WALKER: Ha, ha, ha. Don't know how old you are! Do you know who made you? SALLY: I hev heard who it was in de Bible dat made me, but I dun forget de gentman's name. WALKER: Ha, ha, ha. Well, doctor, this is the greenest lot of niggers I've seen for some time. Well, what do you ask for them? WALKER:

THE ESCAPE 6 3 DR. GAINES: You may have Sam for $1,000, and Sally for $900. They are worth all I ask for them. You know I never banter, Mr. Walker. There they are; you can take them at that price, or let them alone, just as you please. WALKER: Well, doctor, I reckon 111 take 'em; but it's all they are worth. I'll put the handcuffs on 'em, and then 111 pay you. I likes to go accordin' to Scripter. Scripter says ef eatin' meat will offend your brother, you must quit it; and I say, ef leavin' your slaves without the handcuffs will make 'em run away, you must put the handcuffs on 'em. Now, Sam, don't you and Sally cry. I am of a tender heart, and it oilers makes me feel bad to see people cryin'. Don't cry, and the first place I get to, 111 buy each of you a great big ginger cake—that I will. Now, Mr. Pinchen, I wish you were going down the river. I'd like to have your company; for I allers like the company of preachers. MR. PINCHEN: Well, Mr. Walker, I would be much pleased to go down the river with you, but it's too early for me. I expect to go to Natchez in four or five weeks, to attend a camp-meetin', and if you were going down then, I'd like it. What kind of niggers sells best in the Orleans market, Mr. Walker? WALKER: Why, field hands. Did you think of goin' in the trade? MR. PINCHEN: Oh, no; only it's a long ways down to Natchez, and I thought I'd just buy five or six niggers, and take 'em down and sell 'em to pay my travellin' expenses. I only want to clear my way.

Scene Three (Sitting room—table and rocking chair. Enter MRS. right, followed by SAMPEYJ

GAINES,

MRS. GAINES: I do wish your master would come; I want supper. Run to the gate, Sampey, and see if he is coming, (exit SAMPEY, left) That man is enough to break my heart. The patience of an angel could not stand it.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

(Enter

SAMPEY,

SAMPEY: Yes,

left) missis, master is coming.

(Enter DR. GAINES, left The doctor walks about with his hands under his coat seeming very much elated) 5. GAINES: Why, doctor, what is the matter? My dear, don't call me doctor. MRS. GAINES: What should I call you? DR. GAINES: Call me Colonel, my dear—Colonel. I have been elected Colonel of the Militia, and I want you to call me by my right name. I always felt that Providence had designed me for something great, and He has just begun to shower His blessings upon me. MRS. GAINES: Dear me, I could never get to calling you Colonel; I've called you doctor for the last twenty years. DR. GAINES: NOW, Sarah, if you will call me Colonel, other people will, and I want you to set the example. Come, my darling, call me Colonel, and 111 give you anything you wish for. MRS. GAINES: Well, as I want a new gold watch and bracelets, 111 commence now. Come, Colonel, well go to supper, (aside) Ah! now for my new shawl. Mrs. Lemme was here today, Colonel, and she had on, Colonel, one of the prettiest shawls, Colonel, I think, Colonel, that I ever saw, Colonel, in my life, Colonel. And there is only one, Colonel, in Mr. Watson's store, Colonel; and that, Colonel, will do, Colonel, for a Colonel's wife. DR. GAINES: Ah! my dear, you never looked so much the lady since I've known you. Go, my darling, get the watch, bracelets, and shawl, and tell them to charge them to Colonel Gaines; and when you say "Colonel," always emphasize the word. MRS. GAINES: Come, Colonel, let's go to supper. DR. GAINES: My dear, you're a jewel—you are! (exit right) DR. GAINES:

(Enter

CATO,

left)

THE ESCAPE CATO: Why, whar is massa and missis? I tought dey was here. Ah! by golly, yonder comes a mulatter gal. Yes, its Mrs. Jones's Tapioca. Ill set up to dat gal, dat I will, (enter TAPIOCA, right) Good ebenin', Miss Tappy. How is your foks? TAPIOCA: Pretty well, I tank you. CATO: Miss Tappy, dis wanderin' heart of mine is yours. Come, take a seat! Please to squze my manners; love discommodes me. Take a seat. Now, Miss Tappy, I loves you; an ef you will jess marry me, 111 make you a happy husband, dat I will. Come, take me as I is. TAPIOCA: But what will Big Jim say? CATO: Big Jim! Why, let dat nigger go to Ginny. I want to know, now, if you is tinkin' about dat common nigger? Why, Miss Tappy, I is surstonished dat you should tink *bout frownin' yoursef away wid a common, ugly lookin' cuss like Big Jim, when you can get a fine lookin', suspectable man like me. Come, Miss Tappy, choose dis day who you have. Afore I go any furder, give me one kiss. Come, give me one kiss. Come, let me kiss you. TAPIOCA: NO you shan't—dare now! You shan't kiss me widout you is stronger den I is; and I know you is dat. (he kisses her. Enter DR. GAINES, right and hides) CATO: Did you know, Miss Tappy, dat I is de head doctor t>out dis house? I beats de ole boss all to pieces. TAPIOCA: I hev hearn dat you bleeds and pulls teef. CATO: Yes, Miss Tappy; massa could not get along widout me, for massa was made a doctor by books; but I is a natral doctor. I was born a doctor, jess as Lorenzo Dow was born a preacher. So you see I can't be nuffin' but a doctor, while massa is a bunglin' ole cuss at de bissness. DR. GAINES: (in a low voice) Never mind; I'll teach you a lesson, that I will. CATO: YOU see, Miss Tappy, I was gwine to say—Ah! but afore I forget, jess give me anudder kiss, jess to keep company wid de one dat you give me jess now—

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

dat's all. (kisses her) Now, Miss Tappy, duse you know de fuss time dat I seed you? TAPIOCA: NO, Mr. Cato, I don't. CATO: Well, it was at de camp-meetin'. Oh, Miss Tappy, dat pretty red calliker dress you had on dat time did de work for me. It made my heart flutter— DR. OAINES: (low voice) Yes, and I'll make your black hide flutter. CATO: Didn't I hear some noise? By golly, dar is teves in dis house, and I'll drive 'em out. (takes a chair and runs at the DOCTOR, and knocks him down. The DOCTOR chases CATO around the table) Oh, massa, I didn't know 'twas you! DR. GAINES: You scoundrel! I'll whip you well. Stop! I tell you. (curtain falls)

ACT THREE Scene One (Sitting room. MRS. GAINES, seated in an arm reading a letter. Enter HANNAH, left)

chain

s. GAINES: YOU need not tell me, Hannah, that you don't want another husband, I know better. Your master has sold Sam, and he's gone down the river, and you'll never see him again. So, go and put on your calico dress, and meet me in the kitchen. I intend for you to jump the broomstick with Cato. You need not tell me that you don't want another man. I know that there's no woman living that can be happy and satisfied without a husband. HANNAH: Oh, missis, I don't want to jump de broomstick wid Cato. I don't love Cato; I can't love him. MRS. GAINES: Shut up, this moment! What do you know about love? I didn't love your master when I married him, and people don't marry for love now. So go and put on your calico dress, and meet me in the kitchen, (exit HANNAH, left) I am glad that the Colonel has sold Sam; now I'll make Hannah marry Cato, and

THE ESCAPE

I have them both here under my eye. And I am also glad that the Colonel has parted with Melinda. Still, I'm afraid that he is trying to deceive me. He took the hussy away yesterday, and says he sold her to a trader; but I don't believe it. At any rate, if she's in the neighborhood, I'll find her, that I will. No man ever fools me. (exit MRS. GAINES, left)

Scene Two (The kitchen—slaves at work. Enter HANNAH, right) HANNAH: Oh, Cato, do go and tell missis dat you don't want to jump de broomstick wid me—dat's a good man! Do, Cato; kase I nebber can love you. It was only las week dat massa sold my Sammy, and I don't want any udder man. Do go tell missis dat you don't want me. CATO: NO, Hannah, I ain't a-gwine to tell missis no such think, kase I dose want you, and I ain't a-gwine to tell a lie for you ner nobody else. Dar, now you's got it! I don't see why you need to make so much fuss. I is better lookin' den Sam; an' I is a house servant, an' Sam was only a fiel' hand; so you ought to feel proud of a change. So go and do as missis tells you. (exit HANNAH, left) Hannah needn't try to get me to tell a lie; I aint' a-gwine to do it, kase I dose want her, an' I is bin wantin' her dis long time, an' soon as massa sold Sam, I knowed I would get her. By golly, I is gwine to be a married man. Won't I be happy! Now, ef I could only jess run away from ole massa, an' get to Canada wid Hannah, den I'd show 'em who I was. Ah! dat reminds me of my song t>out ole massa and Canada, an' 111 sing it fer yer. Dis is my m'original hyme. It corned into my head one night when I was fass asleep under an apple tree, looking up at de moon. Now for my song: AIR—"Dandy

Jim"

Come all ye bondmen far and near, Let's put a song in massa's ear, It is a song for our poor race, Who're whipped and trampled with disgrace.

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6 8

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN CHORUS

My old massa tells me, Oh, This is a land of freedom, Oh; Let's look about and see if it's so, Just as massa tells me, Oh. He tells us of that glorious one, I think his name was Washington, How he did fight for liberty, To save a threepence tax on tea. CHORUS

But now we look about and see That we poor blacks are not so free; We're whipped and thrashed about like fools, And have no chance at common schools. CHORUS

They take our wives, insult and mock, And sell our children on the block, They choke us if we say a word, And say that "niggers" shan't be heard. CHORUS

Our preachers, too, with whip and cord, Command obedience in the Lord; They say they learn it from the big book, But for ourselves, we dare not look. CHORUS

There is a country far away, I think they call it Canada, And if we reach Victoria's shore, They say that we are slaves no more. Now haste, all bondsmen, let us go, And leave this Christian country, Oh; Haste to the land of the British Queen, Where whips for negroes are not seen. Now, if we go, we must take the night, And never let them come in sight; The bloodhounds will be on our track, And woe to us if they fetch us back.

THE ESCAPE

Now haste all bondsmen, let us go, And leave this Christian country, Oh; God help us to Victoria's shore, Where we are free and slaves no more! (Enter MRS. GAINES, left) 5. GAINES: Ah! Cato, you're ready, are you? Where is Hannah? CATO: Yes, missis; I is bin waitin' dis long time. Hannah has bin here tryin' to swade me to tell you dat I don't want her; but I telled her dat you sed I must jump de broomstick wid her, an' I is gwine to mind you. MRS. GAINES: That's right, Cato; servants should always mind their masters and mistresses, without asking a question. CATO: Yes, missis, I allers dose what you and massa tells me, an' axes nobody. (Enter HANNAH, right) 3. GAINES: Ah! Hannah; come, we are waiting for you. Nothing can be done till you come. HANNAH: Oh, missis, I don't want to jump de broomstick wid Cato; I can't love him. MRS. GAINES: Shut up, this moment. Dolly, get the broom. Susan, you take hold of the other end. There, now hold it a little lower—there, a little higher. There, now, that'll do. Now Hannah, take hold of Cato's hand. Let Cato take hold of your hand. HANNAH: Oh, missis, do spare me. I don't want to jump de broomstick wid Cato. MRS. GAINES: Get the cowhide, and follow me to the cellar, and I'll whip you well. I'll let you know how to disobey my orders. Get the cowhide, and follow me to the cellar, (exit MRS. GAINES and HANNAH, right) DOLLY: Oh, Cato, do go an' tell missis dat you don't ^want Hannah. Don't you hear how she's whippin' her in de cellar? Do go an' tell missis dat you don't want Hannah, and den she'll stop whippin' her.

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7O

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN CATO: No, Dolly, I ain't a-gwine to do no such a thing, kase ef I tell missis dat I don't want Hannah, den missis will whip me; an' I ain't a-gwine to be whipped fer you, ner Hannah, ner nobody else. No, I'll jump de broomstick wid every woman on de place, ef missis wants me to, before I'll be whipped. DOLLY: Cato, ef I was in Hannah's place, I'd see you in de bottomless pit before I'd live wid you, you great big wall-eyed, empty-headed, knock-kneed fool. You're as mean as your devilish old missis. CATO: Ef you don't quit daFbtisin' me, Dolly, I'll tell missis as soon as she comes in, ;an' she'll whip you, you know she will. \

(Enter MRS. GAINES and HANNAH, right MRS. GAINES J a n s herself with her handkerchief, and appears fatigued) MRS. GAINES: YOU ought tojbe ashamed of yourself, Hannah, to make me fatigue myself in this way, to make you do your duty. It's very naughty in you, Hannah. Now, Dolly, you and Susan get the broom, and get out in the middle of the room. There, hold it a little lower—a little higher; there, that'll do. Now, remember that this is a solemn occasion; you are going to jump into matrimony. Now, Cato, take hold of Hannah's hand. There, now, why couldn't you let Cato take hold of your hand before? Now get ready, and when I count three, do you jump. Eyes on the broomstick! All ready. One, two, three, and over you go. There, now you're husband and wife, and if you don't live happy together, it's your own fault; for I am sure there's nothing to hinder it. Now, Hannah, come up to the house, and I'll give you some whiskey, and you can make some apple toddy, and you and Cato can have a fine time, (exit MRS. GAINES and HANNAH, left) DOLLY: I tell you what, Susan, when I get married, I is gwine to have a preacher to marry me. I ain't agwine to jump de broomstick. Dat will do for fiel' hands, but house servants ought to be *bove dat. SUSAN: Well, chile, you can't speck any ting else from ole missis. She come from down in Carlina, from

THE ESCAPE

'mong de poor white trash. She don't know any better. You can't speck nothin' more dan a jump from a frog. Missis says she is one of de akastocacy; but she ain't no more of an akastocacy dan I is. Missis says she was born wid a silver spoon in her mouf; ef she was, I wish it had a-choked her, dat's what I wish. Missis wanted to make Linda jump de broomstick wid Glen, but massa ain't a-gwine to let Linda jump de broomstick wid anybody. He's gwine to keep Linda fer heself. DOLLY: YOU know massa took Linda 'way las' night, an' tell missis dat he has sold her and sent her down de river; but I don't b'lieve he has sold her at all. He went ober towards de poplar farm, an' I tink Linda is ober dar now. Ef she is dar, missis'll find it out, fer she tell'd massa las' night, dat ef Linda was in de neighborhood, she'd find her. (exit DOLLY and SUSANJ

Scene Three (Sitting room—chairs and table. Enter HANNAH, right) HANNAH: I don't keer what missis says; I don't like Cato, an' I won't live wid him. I always love my Sammy, an' I loves him now. (knock at the door—goes to the door. Enter MAJ. MOORE, center) Walk in, sir; take a seat. I'll call missis, sir; massa is gone away, (exit HANNAH, right) MAJ. MOORE: SO I am here at last, and the Colonel is not at home. I hope his wife is a good-looking woman. I rather like fine-looking women, especially when their husbands are from home. Well, I've studied human nature to some purpose. If you wish to get the good will of a man, don't praise his wife, and if you wish to gain the favor of a woman, praise her children, and swear that they are the picture of their father, whether they are or not. Ah! here comes the lady.

(Enter MRS. GAINES, right) 5. GAINES: Good morning, sir!

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN MAJ. MOORB: Good morning, madam! I am Maj. Moore, of Jefferson. The Colonel and I had seats near each other in the last Legislature. MRS. GAINES: Be seated, sir. I think I've heard the Colonel speak of you. He's away, now; but I expect him every moment. You're a stranger here, I presume? MAJ. MOORE: Yes, madam, I am. I rather like the Colonel's situation here. MRS. GAINES: It is thought to be a fine location, (enter SAMPEY, right) Hand me my fan, will you, Sampey?

gets the Jan and passes near the MAJOR, who mistakes the boy for the Colonels son. He reaches out his hand) (SAMPEY

MAJ. MOORE: HOW do you do, Bob? Madam, I should have known that this was the Colonel's son, if I had met him in California; for he looks so much like his papa. MRS. GAINES: (to the boy) Get out of here this minute. Go to the kitchen, (exit SAMPEY, right) That is one of the niggers, sir. MAJ. MOORE: I beg your pardon, madam; I beg your pardon. MRS. GAINES: NO offence, sir; mistakes will be made. Ah! here comes the Colonel.

(Enter

DR. GAINES,

center)

DR. GAINES: Bless my soul, how are you, Major? I'm exceedingly pleased to see you. Be seated, be seated, Major. MRS. GAINES: Please excuse me, gentlemen; I must go and look after dinner, for I've no doubt that the Major will have an appetite for dinner, by the time it is ready. (exit MRS. GAINES, right) MAJ. MOORE: Colonel, I'm afraid I've played the devil here today. DR. GAINES: Why, what have you done? MAJ. MOORE: YOU see, Colonel, I always make it a point, wherever I go, to praise the children, if there

THE ESCAPE

are any, and so today, seeing one of your little servants come in, and taking him to be your son, I spoke to your wife of the marked resemblance between you and the boy. I am afraid I've insulted madam. DR. GAINES: Oh! don't let that trouble you. Ha, ha, ha. If you did call him my son, you didn't miss it much. Ha, ha, ha. Come, we'll take a walk, and talk over matters about old times, (exit left)

Scene Four (Forest scenery. Enter GLEN, left) GLEN: Oh, how I want to see Melinda! My heart pants and my soul is moved whenever I hear her voice. Human tongue cannot tell how my heart yearns toward her. Oh, God! thou who gavest me life, and implanted in my bosom the love of liberty, and gave me a heart to love, Oh, pity the poor outraged slave! Thou, who canst rend the veil of centuries, speak, Oh, speak, and put a stop to this persecution! What is death, compared to slavery? Oh, heavy curse, to have thoughts, reason, taste, judgment, conscience and passions like another man, and not have equal liberty to use them! Why was I born with a wish to be free, and still be a slave? Why should I call another man master? And my poor Melinda, she is taken away from me, and I dare not ask the tyrant where she is. It is childish to stand here weeping. Why should my eyes be filled with tears, when my brain is on fire? I will find my wife—I will; and woe to him who shall try to keep me from her!

Scene Five (Room in a small cottage on the Poplar Farm, ten miles from Muddy Creek, and owned by DR. GAINES. Enter MELINDA, right) LINDA: Here I am, watched, and kept a prisoner in this place. Oh, I would that I could escape, and once more get with Glen. Poor Glen! He does not know

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

where I am. Master took the opportunity, when Glen was in the city with his master, to bring me here to this lonely place, and fearing that mistress would know where I was, he brought me here at night. Oh, how I wish I could rush into the arms of sleep!—that sweet sleep, which visits all alike, descending, like the dews of heaven, upon the bond as well as the free. It would drive from my troubled brain the agonies of this terrible night. (Enter

DR. GAINES,

DR. GAINES:

to see me?

left)

Good evening, Melinda! Are you not glad

MELINDA: Sir, how can I be glad to see one who has made life a burden, and turned my sweetest moments into bitterness? DR. GAINES: Come, Melinda, no more reproaches! You know that I love you, and I have told you, and I tell you again, that if you will give up all idea of having Glen for a husband, I will set you free, let you live in this cottage, and be your own mistress, and 111 dress you like a lady. Come, now, be reasonable! MELINDA: Sir, I am your slave; you can do as you please with the avails of my labor, but you shall never tempt me to swerve from the path of virtue. DR. GAINES: NOW, Melinda, that black scoundrel Glen has been putting these notions into your head. Ill let you know that you are my property, and 111 do as I please with you. Ill teach you that there is no limit to my power. MELINDA: Sir, let me warn you that if you compass my ruin, a woman's bitterest curse will be laid upon your head, with all the crushing, withering weight that my soul can impart to it; a curse that shall cling to you throughout the remainder of your wretched life; a curse that shall haunt you like a spectre in your dreams by night, and attend upon you by day; a curse, too, that shall embody itself in the ghastly form of the woman whose chastity you will have outraged. Command me to bury myself in yonder stream, and I will

THE ESCAPE

obey you. Bid me do any thing else, but I beseech you not to commit a double crime—outrage a woman, and make her false to her husband. DR. GAINBS: You got a husband! Who is your husband, and when were you married? MELINDA: Glen is my husband, and I've been married four weeks. Old Uncle Joseph married us one night by moonlight. I see you are angry; I pray you not to injure my husband. DR. GAINES: Melinda, you shall never see Glen again. I have bought him from Hamilton, and I will return to Muddy Creek, and roast him at the stake. A black villain, to get into my way in that manner! Here I've come ten miles tonight to see you, and this is the way you receive me! MELINDA: Oh, master, I beg you not to injure my husband! Kill me, but spare him! Do! do! he is my husband! DR. GAINES: YOU shall never see that black imp again, so good night, my lady! When I come again, you'll give me a more cordial reception. Good night! (exit DR. GAINES, left) MELINDA: I shall go distracted. I cannot remain here and know that Glen is being tortured on my account. I must escape from this place—I must—I must! (Enter CATO, right) CATO: No, you ain't a-gwine to 'scape, nudder. Massa tells me to keep dese eyes on you, an' I is gwine to do it. MELINDA: Oh, Cato, do let me get away! I beg you, do! CATO: NO; I tells you massa telled me to keep you safe; an' ef I let you go, massa will whip me. (exit CATO, left)

(Enter MRS. GAINES, right) GAINES: Ah, you trollop! here you are! Your master told me that he had sold you and sent you down the river, but I knew better; I knew it was a lie. And when he left home this evening, he said he was going

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to the city on business, and I knew that was a lie too, and determined to follow him, and see what jhe was up to. I rode all the way over here tonight. My ^ide-saddle was lent out, and I had to ride ten miles bare-back, and I can scarcely walk; and your master has just left here. Now deny that, if you dare. MELINDA: Madam, I will deny nothing which is true. Your husband has just gone from here, but God knows that I am innocent of any thing wrong with him. MRS. GAINES: It's a lie! I know better. If you are innocent, what are you doing here, cooped up in this cottage by yourself? Tell me that! MELINDA: God knows that I was brought here against my will, and I beg that you will take me away. MRS. GAINES: Yes, Melinda, I will see that you are taken away, but it shall be after a fashion that you won't like. I know that your master loves you, and I intend to put a stop to it. Here, drink the contents of this vial—drink it! MELINDA: Oh, you will not take my life—you will not! MRS. GAINES: Drink the poison this moment! LINDA: I cannot drink it. s. GAINES: I tell you to drink this poison at once. Drink it, or I will thrust this knife to your heart! The poison or the dagger, this instant! (she draws a dagger; MELINDA retreats to the back of the room, and seizes a broom) MELINDA: I will not drink the poison! (they Jight; MELINDA sweeps off MRS. GAINES'S cap, combs, and curls. Curtainjalls)

ACT FOUR Scene One (Interior of a dungeon—GLEN in chains) GLEN: When I think of my unmerited sufferings, it almost drives me mad. I struck the doctor, and for that, I must remain here loaded with chains. But why

THE ESCAPE

did he strike me? He takes my wife from me, sends her off, and then comes and beats me over the head with his cane. I did right to stirke him back again. I would I had killed him. Oh! there is a volcano pent up in the hearts of the slaves of these Southern States that will burst forth ere long. When that day comes, woe to those whom its unpitying fury may devour! I would be willing to die, if I could smite down with these chains every man who attempts to enslave his fellow-man. (Enter SAMPEY, right) SAMPBT: Glen, I jess bin hear massa call de oberseer, and I spec somebody is gwine to be whipped. Anudder ting: I know whar massa took Linda to. He took her to de poplar farm, an' he went away las' night, an' missis she follow after massa, an' she ain't come back yet. I tell you, Glen, de debil will be to pay on dis place, but don't you tell anybody dat I tole you. (exit SAMPEY, right)

Scene Two (Parlor, DR. GAINES, alone) DR. GAINES: Yes, I will have the black rascal well whipped, and then I'll sell him. It was most fortunate for me that Hamilton was willing to sell him to me. (enter MR. SCRAGG, left) I have sent for you, Mr. Scragg. I want you to take Glen out of the dungeon, take him into the tobacco house, fasten him down upon the stretcher, and give him five hundred lashes upon his bare back; and when you have whipped him, feel his pulse, and report to me how it stands, and if he can bear more, I'll have you give him an additional hundred or two, as the case may be. SCRAGG: I tell you, doctor, that suits me to a charm. I've long wanted to whip that nigger. When your brother-in-law came here to board, and brought that boy with him, I felt bad to see a nigger dressed up in such fine clothes, and I wanted to whip him right off. I tell you, doctor, I had rather whip that nigger than go to heaven, any day—that I had!

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN DR. GAINES: Go, Mr. Scragg, and do your duty. Don't spare the whip! SCRAGG: I will, sir; 111 do it in order, (exit SCRAGG, left) DR. GAINES: Every thing works well now, and when I get Glen out of the way, 111 pay Melinda another visit, and shell give me a different reception. But I wonder where my wife is? She left word that she was going to see her brother, but I am afraid that she has got on my track. That woman is the pest of my life. If there's any place in heaven for her, I'd be glad if the Lord would take her home, for I've had her too long already. But what noise is that? What can that be? What is the matter?

(Enter

SCRAGG,

left with face

bloody)

SCRAGG: Oh, dear me! oh, my head! That nigger broke away from me, and struck me over the head with a stick. Oh, dear me! oh! DR. GAINES: Where is he, Mr. Scragg? SCRAGG: Oh! sir, he jumped out of the window; he's gone. Oh! my head; he's cracked my skull. Oh, dear me, I'm kilt! Oh! oh! oh!

(Enter

SLAVES,

right)

DR. GAINES: GO, Dolly, and wash Mr. Scragg's head with some whiskey, and bind it up. Go at once. And Bob, you run over to Mr. Hall, and tell him to come with his hounds; we must go after the rascal, (exit all except the DOCTOR, right) This will never do. When I catch the scoundrel, 111 make an example of him; I'll whip him to death. Ah! here comes my wife. I wonder what she comes now for? I must put on a sober face, for she looks angry, (enter MRS. GAINES, left) Ah! my dear, I am glad you've come, I've been so lonesome without you. Oh! Sarah, I don't know what I should do if the Lord should take you home to heaven. I don't think that I should be able to live without you. MRS. GAINES: Dr. Gaines, you ought to be ashamed to sit there and talk in that way. You know very well that if the Lord should call me home to glory tonight, you'd

THE ESCAPE

jump for joy But you need not think that I am going to leave this world before you. No; with the help of the Lord, 111 stay here to foil you in your meanness. I've been on your track, and a dirty track it is, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. See what promises you made me before we were married; and this is the way you keep your word. When I married you, every body said that it was a pity that a woman of my sweet temper should be linked to such a man as you. (she weeps and wrings her hands) DR. GAIBIES: Come, my dear, don't make a fool of yourself. Come, let's go to supper, and a strong cup of tea will help your head. MRS. GAINES: Tea help my head! tea won't help my head. You're a brute of a man; I always knew I was a fool for marrying you. There was MR Comstock, he wanted me, and he loved me, and he said I was an angel, so he did; and he loved me, and he wks rich; and mother always said that he loved me more th^n you, for when he used to kiss me, he always squeezed^ay hand. You never did such a thing in your life, (she weeps and wrings her hands) DR. GAINES: Come, my dear, don't act so foolish. MRS. GAINES: Yes; every thing I do is foolish. You're a brute of a man; I won't live with you any longer. I'll leave you—that I will. I'll go and see a lawyer, and get a divorce from you—so I will. DR. GAINES: Well, Sarah, if you want a divorce, you had better engage Mr. Barker. He's the best lawyer in town; and if you want some money to facilitate the business, I'll draw a check for you. MRS. GAINES: SO you want me to get a divorce, do you? Well, I won't have a divorce; no, I'll never leave you, as long as the Lord spares me. (exit MRS. GAINES, right)

Scene Three (Forest at night—large tree. Enter MELINDA, left)

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

MELINDA: This is indeed a dark night to be out and alone on this road. But I must find my husband, I must. Poor Glen! if he only knew that I was here, and could get to me, he would. What a curse slavery is! It separates husbands from their wives, and tears mothers from their helpless offspring, and blights all our hopes for this world. I must try to reach Muddy Creek •before daylight, and seek out my husband. What's that \ _ / l hear?—footsteps? I'll get behind this tree.

(Enter

GLEN,

right)

GLEN: It is so dark, I'm afraid I've missed the road. Still, this must be the right way to the poplar farm. And if Bob told me the truth, when he said that Melinda was at the poplar farm, I will soon be with her; and if I once get her in my arms, it will be a strong man that shall take her from me. Aye, a dozen strong men shall not be able to wrest her from my arms, (MELINDA rushes from behind the tree) MELINDA: Oh, Glen! It is my husband—it is! GLEN: Melinda! Melinda! it is, it is. Oh God! I thank Thee for this manifestation of Thy kindness. Come, come, Melinda, we must go at once to Canada. I escaped from the overseer, whom Dr. Gaines sent to flog me. Yes, I struck him over the head with his own club, and I made the wine flow freely; yes, I pounded his old skillet well for him, and then jumped out of the window. It was a leap for freedom. Yes, Melinda, it was a leap for freedom. I've said "master" for the last time. I am free; I'm bound for Canada. Come, let's be off, at once, for the negro dogs will be put upon our track. Let us once get beyond the Ohio River, and all will be right, (exit right)

ACT FIVE Scene One (Bar-room in the American Hotel—travellers lounging in chairs, and at the bar. Enter BILL JENNINGS, right)

THE ESCAPE

Why, Jennings, how do you do? Say Mr. Jennings, if you please. BARKEEPER: Well, Mr. Jennings, if that suits you better. How are times? WeVe been expecting you, for some days. JENNINGS: Well, before I talk about the times, I want my horses put up, and want you to tell me where my niggers are to stay tonight. Sheds, stables, barns, and everything else here, seems pretty full, if I am a judge. BARKEEPER: Oh! Ill see to your plunder. FIRST LOUNGER: I say, Barkeeper, make me a brandy cocktail, strong. Why, how do you do, Mr. Jennings? JENNINGS: Pretty well, Mr. Peters. Cold evening, this. FIRST LOUNGER: Yes, this is cold. I heard you speak of your niggers. Have you got a pretty large gang? JENNINGS: NO, only thirty-three. But they are the best that the country can afford. I shall clear a few dimes, this trip. I hear that the price is up. BARKEEPER:

JENNINGS:

(Enter MR. WHITE:

lord?

WHITE,

right)

Can I be accommodated here tonight, land-

BARKEEPER: Yes, sir; we've bed for man and beast, (to the waiter) Go, Dick, and take the gentleman's coat and hat. You're a stranger in these parts, I rec'on. WHITE: Yes, I am a stranger here. SECOND LOUNGER: Where 'bout you come from, ef it's a far question? WHITE: I am from Massachusetts. THIRD LOUNGER: I say, cuss Massachusetts! FIRST LOUNGER: I say so too. There is where the fanatics live; cussed traitors. The President ought to hang 'em all. WHITE: I say, landlord, if this is the language that I am to hear, I would like to go into a private room. BARKEEPER: We ain't got no private room empty. FIRST LOUNGER: Maybe you're mad t o u t what I said *bout your State. Ef you is, I've only to say that this is

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

a free country, and people talks what they please; an' ef you don't like it, you can better yourself. WHITE: Sir, if this is a free country, why do you have slaves here? I saw a gang at the door, as I came in. SECOND LOUNGER: He didn't mean that this was a free country for niggers. He meant that it's free for white people. And another thing, ef you get to talking *bout freedom for niggers, you'll catch what you won't like, mister. It's right for niggers to be slaves. WHITE: But I saw some white slaves. FIRST LOUNGER: Well, they're white niggers. WHITE: Well, sir, I am from a free State, and I thank God for it; for the worst act that a man can commit upon his fellow-man is to make him a slave. Conceive of a mind, a living soul, with the germs of faculties which infinity cannot exhaust, as it first beams upon you in its glad morning of existence, quivering with life and joy, exulting in the glorious sense of its developing energies, beautiful, and brave, and generous, and joyous, and free—the clear pure spirit bathed in the auroral light of its unconscious immortality—and then follow it in its dark and dreary passage through slavery, until oppression stifles and kills, one by one, every inspiration and aspiration of its being, until it becomes a dead soul entombed in a living frame! THIRD LOUNGER: Stop that; stop that, I say. That's treason to the country; that's downright rebellion. BARKEEPER: Yes, it is. And another thing—this is not a meeting-house. FIRST LOUNGER: Yes, if you talk such stuff as that, you'll get a chunk of cold lead in you, that you will. (Enter DR. GAINES and SCRAGG, followed

by CATO, right)

DR. GAINES: Gentlemen, I am in pursuit of two valuable slaves, and I will pay five hundred dollars for their arrest, (exit MR. WHITE, left) FIRST LOUNGER: I'll bet a picayune that your niggers have been stolen by that cussed feller from Massachusetts. Don't you see he's gone?

THE ESCAPE 8 3 DR. GAINES: Where is the man? If I can lay my hands on him, hell never steed another nigger. Where is the scoundrel? FIRST LOUNGER: Let's go after the feller. Ill go with you. Come, foller me. (exit all, left, except CATO and the WAITERJ CATO: Why don't you bring in massa's saddle-bags? What de debil you standin' dar for? You common country niggers don't know nuffin', no how. Go an' get massa's saddle-bags and bring 'em in. (exit SERVANT, right) By golly! ebry body's gone, an' de barkeeper too. I'll tend de bar myself now; an' de fuss gemman I waits on will be dis gemman of color, (goes behind the counter, and drinks) Ah, dis is de stuff fer me; it makes my head swim; it makes me happy right off. I'll take a little more.

(Enter

BARKEEPER,

left)

BARKEEPER: What

are you doing behind the bar, you

black cuss? CATO: I is lookin' for massa's saddle-bags, sir. Is dey here? BARKEEPER: But what were you drinking there? CATO: Me drinkin'! Why, massa, you muss be mistaken. I ain't drink nuffin'. BARKEEPER: YOU infernal whelp, to stand there and lie in that way! CATO: Oh, yes, seer, I did tase dat coffee in dat bottle; dat's all I did. (Enter

MR. WHITE,

left, excited)

MR. WHITE: I say, sir, is there no place of concealment in your house? They are after me, and my life is in danger. Say, sir, can't you hide me away? BARKEEPER: Well, you ought to hold your tongue when you come into our State. MR. WHITE: But, sir, the Constitution gives me the right to speak my sentiments, at all times and in all places.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

BARKEEPER: We don't care for Constitutions nor nothin' else. We made the Constitution, and well break it. But you had better hide away; they are coming, and they'll lynch you, that they will. Come with me; 111 hide you in the cellar. Foller me. (exit BARKEEPER and WHITE, left) (Enter the mob, right) DR. GAINES: If I can once lay my hands on that scoundrel, 111 blow a hole through his head. JENNINGS: Yes, I say so too; for no one knows whose niggers are safe, now-a-days. I must look after my niggers. Who is that I see in the distance? I believe it's that cussed Massachusetts feller. Come, let's go after him. (exit the mob, right)

Scene Two (Forest at night Enter

GLEN

and

MELINDA,

right)

MELINDA: I am so tired and hungry that I cannot go further. It is so cloudy that we cannot see the North Star, and therefore cannot tell whether we are going to Canada, or further South. Let's sit down here. GLEN: I know that we cannot see the North Star, Melinda, and I fear we've lost our way. But, see! the clouds are passing away, and it'll soon be clear. See! yonder is a star; yonder is another and another. Ah! yonder is the North Star, and we are safe! Star of the North! though night winds drift The fleecy drapery of the sky Between thy lamp and me, I lift—7 Yea, lift with hope my sleepless eye, To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest, And of a land of freedom^ tellest. Star of the North! white blazing day Pours round me its full tide of light, And hides thy pale but faithful ray, I, too, lie hid, and long for night: For night: I dare not walk at noon, Nor dare I trust the faithless moon—

THE ESCAPE

Nor faithless man, whose burning lust For gold hath riveted my chain,— Nor other leader can I trust But thee, of even the starry train; For all the host around thee burning, Like faithless man, keep turning, turning. I may not follow where they go:— Star of the North! I look to thee While on I press; for well I know, Thy light and truth shall set me free:Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth; Thy truth, that all my soul believeth. Thy beam is on the glassy breast Of the still spring, upon whose brink I lay my weary limbs to rest, And bow my parching lips to drink. Guide of the friendless negro's way, I bless thee for this quiet ray! In the dark top of southern pines I nestled, when the Driver's horn Called to the field, in lengthening lines, My fellows, at the break of morn. And there I lay till thy sweet face Looked in upon "my hiding place." The tangled cane-brake, where I crept For shelter from the heat of noon, And where, while others toiled, I slept, Till wakened by the rising moon, As its stalks felt the night wind free, Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee. Star of the North! in bright array The constellations round thee sweep, Each holding on its nightly way, Rising, or sinking in the deep, And, as it hangs in mid heaven flaming, The homage of some nation claiming. This nation to the Eagle cowers; Fit ensign! she's a bird of spoil:—

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

Like worships like! for each devours The earnings of another's toil. I've felt her talons and her beak, And now the gentler Lion seek. The Lion, at the Monarch's feet Crouches, and lays his mighty paw Into her lap!—an emblem meet Of England's Queen, and English law: Queen, that hath made her Islands free! Law, that holds out its shield to me! Star of the North! upon that shield Thou shinest,—Oh, for ever shine! The negro, from the cotton field Shall, then, beneath its orb recline, And feed the Lion, crouched before it, Nor heed the Eagle, screaming o'er it! With the thoughts of servitude behind us, and the North Star before us, we will go forward with cheerful hearts. Come, Melinda, let's go on. (exit left)

Scene Three (A street Enter

MR. WHITE,

right)

s: I am glad to be once more in a free State. If I am caught again south of Mason and Dixon's line, I'll give them leave to lynch me. I came near losing my life. This is the way our constitutional rights are trampled upon. But what care these men about Constitutions, or any thing else that does not suit them? But I must hasten on. (exit left) (Enter CATO, in disguise, right) CATO: I wonder if dis is me? By golly, I is free as a frog. But maybe I is mistaken; maybe dis ain't me. Cato, is dis you? Yes, seer. Well, now it is me, an' I em a free man. But, stop! I muss change my name, kase ole massa might foller me, and somebody might tell him dat dey seed Cato; so I'll change my name,

I

THE ESCAPE

and den he won't know me ef he sees me. Now, what shall I call myself? I'm now in a suspectable part of de country, an' I muss have a suspectable name. Ah! I'll call myself Alexander Washington Napoleon Pompey Caesar. Dar, now, dat's a good long, suspectable name, and every body will suspect me. Let me see; I wonder ef I can't make up a song on my escape? I'll try. AIR—"Dearest Mae" Now, freemen, listen to my song, a story I'll relate, It happened in de valley of de ole Kentucky State: Dey marched me out into de fiel', at every break of day, And work me dar till late sunset, widout a cent of pay. Dey work me all de day, Widout a bit of pay, And thought, because dey fed me well, I would not run away. Massa gave me his ole coat, an' thought I'd happy be, But I had my eye on de North Star, an' thought of liberty; Ole massa lock de door, an' den he went to sleep, I dress myself in his bess clothes, an' jump into de street. CHORUS

Dey work me all de day, Widout a bit of pay, So I took my flight, in the middle of de night, When de sun was gone away. Sed I, dis chile's a freeman now, he'll be a slave no more; I travell'd faster all dat night, dan I ever did before.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

I came up to a farmer's house, jest at de break of day, And saw a white man standin' dar, sed he, "You are a runaway" CHORUS

I tole him I had left de whip, an' bayin' of de hound, To find a place where man is man, ef sich dar can be found; Dat I had heard, in Canada, dat all mankind are free, An' dat I was going dar in search of liberty. CHORUS

I've not committed any crime, why should I run away? Oh! shame upon your laws, dat drive me off to Canada. You loudly boast of liberty, an' say your State is free, But ef I tarry in your midst, will you protect me? CHORUS

Scene Four (Dining room—table spread,

MRS. NEAL

and

CHARLOTTEJ

MRS. NEAL: Thee may put the tea to draw, Charlotte. Thy father will be in soon, and we must have breakfast, (enter MR. NEAL, left) I think, Simeon, it is time those people were called. Thee knows that they may be pursued, and we ought not to detain them long here. MR. NEAL: Yes, Ruth, thou art right. Go, Charlotte, and knock on their chamber door, and tell them that breakfast is ready, (exit CHARLOTTE, right) MRS. NEAL: Poor creatures! I hope they'll reach Canada in safety. They seem to be worthy persons.

(Enter

CHARLOTTE,

right)

THE ESCAPE CHARLOTTE: I've tailed them, mother, and they'll soon be down. Ill put the breakfast on the table.

(Enter NEIGHBOR JONES, left) MR. NEAL: Good morning, James. Thee has heard, I presume, that we have two very interesting persons in the house? JONES: Yes, I heard that you had two fugitives by the Underground road, last night; and I've come over to fight for them, if any persons come to take them back.

(Enter THOMAS, right) MR. NEAL: GO, Thomas, and harness up the horses and put them to the covered wagon, and be ready to take these people on, as soon as they get their breakfast. Go, Thomas, and hurry thyself, (exit THOMAS, right) And so thee wants to fight, this morning, James? JONES: Yes; as you belongs to a society that don't believe in fighting, and I does believe in that sort of thing, I thought I'd come and relieve you of that work, if there is any to be done. (Enter GLEN and MELINDA, right) MR. NEAL: Good morning, friends. I hope thee rested well, last night. MRS. NEAL: Yes, I hope thee had a good night's rest. GLEN: I thank you, madam, we did. MR. NEAL: I'll introduce thee to our neighbor, James Jones. He's a staunch friend of thy people. JONES: I am glad to see you. I've come over to render assistance, if any is needed. MRS. NEAL: Come, friends, take seats at the table, (to GLEN and MELINDAJ Thee'll take seats there, (all take seats at the table) Does thee take sugar and milk in thy tea? MELINDA: I thank you, we do. JONES: I'll look at your Tribune, Uncle Simeon, while you're eating. MR. NEAL: Thee'll find it on the table.

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WILLIAM WELLS BROWN

MRS. NEAL: I presume thee's anxious to get to thy journey's end? GLEN: Yes, madam, we are. I am told that we are not safe in any of the free States. MR« NEAL: I am sorry to tell thee that that is too true. Thee will not be safe until thee gets on British soil. I wonder what keeps Thomas; he should have been here with the team.

(Enter

THOMAS,

left)

THOMAS: All's ready; and I've written the prettiest song that was ever sung. I call it "The Underground Railroad." MR. NEAL: Thomas, thee can eat thy breakfast far better than thee can write a song, as thee calls it. Thee must hurry thyself, when I send thee for the horses, Thomas. Here lately, thee takes thy time. THOMAS: Well, you see I've been writing poetry; that's the reason I've been so long. If you wish it, I'll sing it to you. JONES: Do let us hear the song. MRS. NEAL: Yes, if Thomas has written a ditty, do let us hear it. MR. NEAL: Well, Thomas, if thee has a ditty, thee may recite it to us. THOMAS: Well, I'll give it to you. Remember that I call it, "The Underground Railroad."

AIR—"Waitfor the Wagon"

Oh, where is the invention Of this growing age, Claiming the attention Of statesman, priest, or sage, In the many railways Through the nation found, Equal to the Yankees' Railway under-ground? CHORUS

No one hears the whistle, Or rolling of the cars,

THE ESCAPE

While negroes ride to freedom Beyond the stripes and stars. On the Southern borders Are the Railway stations, Negroes get free orders While on the plantations; For all, of ev'ry color, First-class cars are found, While they ride to freedom By Railway under-ground. CHORUS

Masters in the morning Furiously rage, Cursing the inventions Of this knowing age; Order out the bloodhounds, Swear they'll bring them back, Dogs return exhausted, Cannot find the track. CHORUS

Travel is increasing, Build a dotible track, Cars and engines wanted, They'll come, we have no lack. Clear the track of loafers, See that crowded car! Thousands passing yearly, Stock is more than par. CHORUS

JONES: Well done! That's a good song. I'd like to have a copy of them verses, (knock at the door, CHARLOTTE goes to the door, and returns. Enter CATO, left still in disguise) MR. NBAL: Who is this we have? Another of the outcasts, I presume? CATO: Yes, seer; I is gwine to Canada, an' I met a man, an' he tole me dat you would give me some wittals an' help me on de way. By golly! ef dar ain't Glen an' Melinda. Dey don't know me in dese fine clothes.

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(goes up to them) Ah, chillen! I is one wid you. I golly, I is here too! (they shake hands) GLEN: Why, it is Cato, as I live! MELINDA: Oh, Cato, I am so glad to see you! But how did you get here? CATO: Ah, chile, I come wid ole massa to hunt you; an' you see I get tired huntin' you, an' I am now huntin' for Canada. I leff de ole boss in de bed at de hotel; an' you see I thought, afore I left massa, I'd jess change clothes wid him; so, you see, I is fixed up—ha, ha, ha. Ah, chillen! I is gwine wid you. MRS. NEAL: Come, sit thee down, and have some breakfast. CATO: Tank you, madam, I'll do dat. (sits down and eats) MR. NEAL: This is pleasant for thee to meet one of thy friends. GLEN: Yes, sir, it is; I would be glad if we could meet more of them. I have a mother and sister still in slavery, and I would give worlds, if I possessed them, if by so doing I could release them from their bondage. THOMAS: We are all ready, sir, and the wagon is waiting. MRS. NEAL: Yes, thee had better start. CATO: Ef any body tries to take me back to ole massa, I'll pull ebry toof out of dar heads, dat I will! As soon as I get to Canada, I'll set up a doctor shop, an' won't I be poplar? Den I rec'on I will. I'll pull teef fer all de people in Canada. Oh, how I wish I had Hannah wid me! It makes me feel bad when I tink I ain't a-gwine to see my wife no more. But, come, chillen, let's be makin' tracks. Dey say we is most to de British side. MR. NEAL: Yes, a few miles further, and you'll be safe beyond the reach of the Fugitive-Slave Law. CATO: Ah, dat's de talk fer dis chile, (exit, center)

Scene Five (The Niagara River—a Jerry, small boat)

FERRYMAN, fastening

his

THE ESCAPE 9 3 FERRYMAN: (advancing, takes out his watch) I swan, if it ain't one o'clock. I thought it was dinner time. Now there's no one here, I'll go to dinner, and if any body comes, they can wait until I return. I'll go at once, (exit, left)

(Enter MR. WHITE, right, with an

umbrella)

MR. WHITE: I wonder where that ferryman is? I want to cross to Canada. It seems a little showery, or else the mist from the Falls is growing thicker, (takes out his sketch-book and pencils, sketches)

(Enter CANE PEDLAR, right) PEDLAR: Want a good cane today, sir? Here's one from Goat Island—very good, sir—straight and neat— only one dollar. I've a wife and nine small children— youngest is nursing, and the oldest only three years old. Here's a cane from Table Rock, sir. Please buy one! I've had no breakfast today. My wife's got the rheumatics, and the children's got the measles. Come, sir, do buy a cane! I've a lame shoulder, and can't work. MR. WHITE: Will you stop your confounded talk, and let me alone? Don't you see that I am sketching? You've spoiled a beautiful scene for me, with your nonsense.

(Enter SECOND PEDLAR, right) SECOND PEDLAR: Want any bead bags, or money purses? These are all real Ingen bags, made by the Black Hawk Ingens. Here's a pretty bag, sir, only 75 cents. Here's a money purse, 50 cents. Please, sir, buy something! My wife's got the fever and ague, and the house is full of children, and they're all sick. Come, sir, do help a worthy man! MR. WHITE: Will you hold your tongue? You've spoiled some of the finest pictures in the world. Don't you see that I am sketching? (exit PEDLARS, right, grumbling) I am glad those fellows have gone; now I'll go a little further up the shore, and see if I can find another boat. I want to get over, (exit, left)

(Enter DR. GAINES, SCRAGG, and an OFFICERJ

94

WILLIAM WELLS BROWN OFFICER: I don't think that your slaves have crossed yet, and my officers will watch the shore below here, while we stroll up the river. If I once get my hands on them all the Abolitionists in the State shall not take them from me. DR. GAINES: I hope they have not got over, for I would not lose them for two thousand dollars, especially the gal. (Enter FIRST PEDLARJ PEDLAR: Wish to get a good cane, sir? This stick was cut on the very spot where Sam Patch jumped over the falls. Only 50 cents. I have a sick wife and thirteen children. Please buy a cane; I ain't had no dinner. OFFICER: Get out of the way! Gentlemen, we'll go up the shore, (exit left) (Enter CATO, right) CATO: I is loss fum de cumpny, but dis is de ferry, and I spec dey'll soon come. But didn't we have a good time las' night in Buffalo? Dem dar Buffalo gals make my heart flutter, dat dey did. But, tanks be to de Lord, I is got religion. I got it las' night in de meetin'. Before I got religion, I was a great sinner; I got drunk, an' took de name of de Lord in vain. But now I is a conwerted man; I is bound for hebben; I toats de witness in my bosom; I feel dat my name is rote in de book of life. But dem niggers in de Vine Street Church las' night shout an' make sich a fuss, dey give me de headache. But, tank de Lord, I is got religion, an' now I'll be a preacher, and den dey'll call me de Rev. Alexander Washington Napoleon Pompey Caesar. Now I'll preach and pull teef, bofe at de same time. Oh, how I wish I had Hannah wid me! Cuss ole massa, fer ef it warn't for him, I could have my wife wid me. Ef I hadn't religion, I'd say "Damn ole massa!" but as I is a religious man, an' belongs to de church, I won't say no sich a thing. But who is dat I see comin'? Oh, it's a whole heap of people. Good Lord! what is de matter?

(Enter GLEN and MELINDA, left followed by OFFICERS,/

THE ESCAPE GLEN: Let them come; I am ready for them. He that lays hands on me or my wife shall feel the weight of this club. MBLINDA: Oh, Glen, let's die here, rather than again go into slavery. OFFICER: I am the United States Marshal. I have a warrant from the Commissioner to take you, and bring you before him. I command assistance.

(Enter DR. GAINES, SCRAGG, and OFFICER, right) DR. GAINES: Here they are. Down with the villain! down with him! b u t don't hurt the gal!

(Enter MR. WHITE, right) MR. WHITE: Why, bless me! these are the slaveholding fellows. Ill fight for freedom! (takes hold of his umbrella with both hands. The Jight commences, in Which

GLEN, CATO, DR. GAINES, SCRAGG, WHITE, and the OF-

FICERS take part FERRYMAN enters, and runs to his boat DR. GAINES, SCRAGG, and the OFFICERS are knocked down. GLEN, MELINDA, and CATO jump into the boat and as it leaves the shore andjloats away, GLEN and CATO wave their hats, and shout loudly for freedom. Curtain falls)

95

Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins (1859-1930)

96

The author of Contending Forces, a melodramatic novel once popular at the turn of the century, Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins also wrote one of the earliest musical dramas in the history of black theater: Peculiar Sam, or the Underground Railroad (1879). Because her other work (three novels, three plays, and much short fiction) had not been generally available until recently, it has not been widely known in black literary circles. But that neglect is being corrected as readers are beginning to realize that Hopkins's interest in dramatizing the personal lives of black people anticipated the more sophisticated writing of authors such as Toni Morrison, Ed Bullins, and Alice Walker. Hopkins was born in Portland, Maine, in 1859, to Northrup and Sarah Allen Hopkins. Her family moved to Boston, and while attending Girls High School there, she first began to show talent as a writer. Her essay "Evils of Intemperance and Their Remedies" won first prize in the William Wells Brown Contest sponsored by the Congregational Publishing Society, and she completed a musical drama, Aristocracy (1877), and Winona, a five-act play (1878). In 1880, Hopins saw her next play, Slaves Escape; or The Underground Railroad produced as a musical drama by the Hopkins' Colored Troubadours at Oakland Gar-

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

dens in Boston. Hopkins's parents were in the cast, and she herself sang a leading role. Perhaps influenced by Brown's The Escape (1858), the action centers on slaves fleeing to the North, a recurrent theme in her subsequent work. Possibly to distinguish the title from Brown's, Hopkins in her revision called the play Peculiar Sam. The reviews were generally favorable. For the next twelve years, Hopkins earned a living as a performer known as "Boston's Favorite Soprano" in the family touring group. She also pursued her other interest in the theater, completing the unpublished and unproduced "One Scene from the Drama of Early Days," drawn from the biblical story of Daniel in the lion's den. For a period of almost ten years, she worked as a stenographer for the state Bureau of Statistics and gave public lectures. Her publishing career took off in 1900 after the newly founded Colored American magazine carried in its first issue her short story "The Mystery Within Us." Before its demise in 1909, six more short stories and three serialized novels by Hopkins appeared on its pages. In 1900, the company sponsoring the magazine, The Colored Co-operative Publishing Company of Boston, brought out her most popular work, Contending Forces: A Romance Illustrative of Negro Life North and South, based on incidents that "have actually occurred" (according to an advertisement for the book). This convoluted melodrama of mixed blood had been more or less excluded from the Afro-American literary canon, according to Jane Campbell in The Dictionary of Literary Biography, until recent scholarship by Ann Allen Shockley and Claudia Tate made clear its relevance to black women's "heroic possibilities and [their] significant roles in past events." In Campbell's opinion, this early novel, even with its rhetorical excesses characteristic of women's fiction of the period, "functions to acquaint her audience with the grim historical convergence of racism and sexism at the same time [that it] serves as a paradigm of black womanhood."

97

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

Though by 1904 Hopkins's health forced her to leave the staff of Colored American, she continued to create. She undertook a sociocultural survey series called "The Dark Races of the Twentieth Century," published by Voice of the Negro in 1905. Her last piece of writing, a novella called "Topsy Templeton," appeared in New Era in 1916. In her final years, she returned to her career as a stenographer, working for M.I.T. for a time before her accidental death caused by fire in 1930. Her pioneering spirit in fiction, play production, and editing has attracted new attention from AfroAmerican critics who regard her as a forerunner of such writers as Jessie Fauset, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Shirley Graham. Her justifiable pride in famous black people and the "darker races" anticipated the focus of Du Bois's The Crisis magazine. Jane Campbell lauds her as the " literary foremother' to the development of Black American literature." Her papers are in the Fisk University Library in Nashville. References Berzon, Judith R. Neither White nor Black: The Mulatto Character in American Fiction. New York: New York University Press, 1978. Campbell, Jane. "Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins." The Dictionary of Literary Biography. Detroit: Gale Research, 1986. Isaacs, Edith. The Negro in the American Theatre. New York: Theatre Arts, 1945. Loggins, Vernon. The Negro Author: His Development in America to 1900. New York: Columbia University Press, 1931. Shockley, Ann A. "Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins: A Biographical Excursion into Obscurity." Phylon 33 (1972): 22-26.

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

Tate, Claudia. "Pauline Hopkins: Our Literary Foremother." Conjuring: Black Women, Fiction, and Literary Tradition, ed. Marjorie Pryse and Hortense J. Spillers. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985.

99

Peculiar Sam, or The Underground Railroad A MUSICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins CAST SAM9 [Lucas] a peculiar fellow (1st Tenor) JIM9 overseer (2nd Tenor) CAESAR, station master (Baritone) PETE, POMP, friends to Sam (Tenon Bass) VIRGINIA, the plantation nightingale (Soprano) JUNO, sister to Sam (Alto) MAMMY, mother to Sam (2nd Soprano)

ACT I (Scene, interior of an old cabin. Entrance at back, usual furniture. Time, evening. Unseen chorus sings as curtain rises. At close of chorus, enter SAM, followed by JIM, CAESAR, PETE, and POMP, dressed as field hands, POMP with banjo) SAM: Come on boys well hab a right smart time hyar, all to ourselves. Mammy and Juno is gone out an' de coast am clar. PETE: I say Sam, show de boys dat new step you war 1OO

PECULIAR SAM

takin' in de fiel' dis mornin'. (to rest) Clar, I neber seed a fellar use his feet as dat Sam kan. (laughter) SAM: I allers likes to be 'comidatin' to my frien's. Now Pomp you strike up suthin lively an' de res' ob you gimmens take a turn wid de music till you git kin' o' warmed up, an' soon as you's at de right pitch I'll wade in on de new step. PETE: Jes' so sir. (POMP strikes up lively dance, each takes a turn, SAM beats time and grows more and more excited)

SAM: (unable to restrain himself longer) Take kar dar, de spirits a movin' in me, Ise comin'. (Rest cease dancing, mark time until he drops, exhausted, into a seat) SAM: I tell you what gimmens, when I gits off on an ole Virginie, I feels jes like an onthoughtful horse, died I does. POMP: (rising) I tell you boy you's a hi ole dancer, you doesn't kno' your own walloo. (to rest) Les all go down to uncle Eph's backyard an' hearse dis new step. Clar, I jes tingles to get at it. ALL: Dat's jes de ting, (JIM, CAESAR, PETE, and POMP move toward door) SAM: I'll meet you dar, soon as I 'sposes ob some tickler bisness Ise got on han'. (laughter) PETE: 'Spec' boy you'd better look out for Jim; he's got young Marse mighty sweet, an' ole times am pas' since old Marse died. I doesn't like to say it, but Ise might 'fraid you's gwine to lose your gal. SAM: (answers PETE with solo) One night as the moon was beamin' I lay fas' asleep a dreamin'; That the sun was shinin' bright, In the middle of the night And the darkies had assembled to have a little fight. I woke an' the banjo was soundin' An' the bones through the air were boundin';

101

1O2

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

How happy I did seem, I was married in a dream, In an ole Virginie mudscow floatin down stream. CHORUS: (JIM, CAESAR, PETE,

and

POMP

sing)

SAM:

Din I warn all de niggers not to love her, Ef they do it'll cause them to blubber; Now git out of my way an' member what I say, I'm gwine to marry her myself some very fine day. ALL: Kiah! Kiah! Kiah! PETE: I 'spec' you will Sam, 'spec' you will. (Exit

JIM, CAESAR, PETE,

and

POMPJ

SAM: Wonder whar all de folks is. (thoughtfully) 'Pears like to me nuthin's wrong; I feel it inter my bones dat dars gwine to be a disjointin' hyar soon, an' when I gits dose 'pressions dey's neber wrong. (Enter

MAMMY,

excited)

MAMMY: (breathing hard) For de Lor's sake boy do you kno' what dey's gone an' done up to de big house? Dey's gone an married dat dear chile, dat lamb ob a Jinny, to dat rascal ob an oberseer Jim. SAM: (excited, grasps her arm) Mammy, tell me agin! You don't mean it! Tell me dey haint done dat! MAMMY: (astonished) He yar boy, lef be my arm. You mean to scrunch me to a jelly? (He drops her arm) Yes, deys bring dat gal up like a lady; she neber done nuthin' but jes wait on Marse fambly an' now ole Marser's dead dey's gone an' married her, their way to Jim an' de gal can't bar de sight ob him. It's de meanes' thing I eber seed. SAM: (dejected) An' dats' de way they treats dar slabes! An' den they tells how kin' dey is, an' how satisfied we is, an' den thar dogs an' horses, (to MAMMYJ Mammy, when am dat time comin' dat you's tol me t>out eber since I was knee high to a cricket, when am

PECULIAR SAM

Moses gwine to lead us forsook niggers fro' de Red Sea? (covers face with arm, and turns away) MAMMY: (lays hand on his arm) Poor boy! Poor Sammy! Chile, I didn't kno' you loved dat gal, but I might a knowed it, I might a knowed it. Don't yer gib up nor lose your spirits, for de Lord am comin' on his mighty chariot, drawn by his big white horse, an' de white folks hyar, am a gwine to tremble. Son Ise been waitin' dese twenty-five year, an' I aint guv up yet. SAM: Yes Mammy, but Ise bibbed dat gal eber sense we made mud pies, down inter de holler, an' I used to steal milk for her out ob de hog tro. SAM: (sorrowfully) Po' Jinny, po' little gal (sings): Ah! Jinny is a simple chile, Wif pretty shinin' curls, An' white folks love her best, of all The young mulatto girls; Tell her to wait a little while, Tell her in hope to wait, For I will surely break the chain, That binds her to the gate. CHORUS:

(mixed quartet unseen, sings)

SAM:

Our old cabin stands upon the stream, In old Mississippi state And I must quickly hurry on An' take po' Jinny from de gate. Ole Marser's dead an' I am sold, From Mississippi state; But I can't leave her here alone, To weep beside the gate; I cannot tell her we must part, Alas! Our cruel fate; And so with patient eyes she'll watch For me, beside the gate. CHORUS:

(sings)

SAM:

T'would be wrong for me to leave her lone, In Mississippi state;

103

104

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

But cunning, it will break the chain That binds her to the gate; So 111 Marser's gol' an' silver get, Pray heaven I'm not too late; To set my darling Jinny free, And take her to the gate. CHORUS: (sings) SAM:

If you should ever travel to the South. To Mississippi state; Don't fail to find this cabin out, Where Jinny stood at the gate; Tell her to wait a little while, Tell her in hope to wait; For I am he, shall make her free, An take her from the gate. CHORUS: (sings) (At close, enter

VIRGINIA and JUNO,

and

JIM

with

bundle)

JUNO: Mammy, I jes toted Jinny down hyar, for you to use some salvation wif her; talk *bout dat gal's bein' sof and easy. She says she's gwine to r u n 'way tonight. (SAM JUNO

takes VIRGINIA by one hand, MAMMY takes the other, makes circuit around them)

VIRGINIA: Yes, Mammy, and Sam, I have come to say good-bye, it's hard to leave the place where I was born, but it is better to do this, than to remain here, and become what they wish me to be. To fulfill this socalled marriage. JUNO: Yes, Mammy, orrlies thing they done in de worl' was, Marse he say, "Jim you want to marry Jinny?" Jim he say yes, course Jim say yes. Marse he say, "Jinny you want to marry J i m ? " Jinny her say no, like to kno' what Jinny want to igernunt ole Jim. Marse say, "You man an' wife, an Lor' hab mussy on you soul." Dat no kin' ob weddin'. SAM: Jinny, you isn't 'fraid to trust ol' peculiar Sam, I know, kase you see Ise allers willin' to die fer you.

PECULIAR SAM

You needn't bid any on us good-bye, kase dis night I 'tends to tote you and Mammy and Juno 'way from hyar. Yas, an' I'll neber drop ye till Ise toted you safe inter Canidy. MAMMY: (astonished) Boy what you talkin' iDout! JUNO: Golly mighty jes hyar dat fellar. SAM: Yas, we's all gwine to Canidy! Dars been suthin' a growin' an' a growin' inter me, an' it keep sayin', "Run 'way, run away, Sam. Be a man, be a free man." An' Mammy, ef it hadn't been fer you an' de gals I'd been gone long 'go. But Ise prepared myself, in kase ob a 'mergensy. MAMMY: Look hyar boy, what has you been a doin'? I doesn't want you to bring no disrace onter me. SAM: (looks carefully around) See hyar. (They gather around him as he produces slip of paper from his pocket) Dat's a pass for us to go to camp meetin'. Now all ob you kno's dat dars a lot of fellars roun' hyar runnin' off slabes. Dey runs dem to Canidy, an' all 'long de road, de white litioners helps 'em deceitfully, an' dey calls dis, de underground railroad. Ef we kin get 'way from hyar inter te nex' state, we kin reach de fus' station oo de road, an' from dar, they'll take charge on us, an' band us safe in Canidy. JUNO: I know whar dat is, dar aint no slabe niggers dar, dey's all tooken care on by Mrs. Queen Victoria, she's de Presidunt ob Canidy. MAMMY: YOU hish up gal, an' laf your brudder talk. Day allers tol' me dat boy was pecoolar, but I neber 'spected it would revelop itself in dis way. SAM: Dars a mullato fellar gwine to start a gang up river to-night, an' Ise gwine to be dat fellar, an' you's gwine to be de gang. Ef we kin 'complish dis we's all right, an' we'll say good-bye to the ole plantation. JUNO: Sh! Dars somebody comin'. (runs quickly and seats herself on VIRGINIA'S bundle. Enter JIM as overseer) JIM: I 'spected I'd fin' you hyar Miss Airy but you're my wife now, an' you's got to do as I says. Dars dat hoe

105

106

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

cake aint baked for my supper, an' dars my ol' pants wants mendin\ an' you's got it to do. (VIRGINIA shrinks from him. JIMfollows her. SAMJOIIOWS him) You's full o' airs, data what you is, but I'll bring em out o' you, ef I has to tie you up an' gib you a dozen lashes. (Seizes VIRGINIA by her arm, SAM seizes him by collar jerks him, then releases him) SAM: (shudders with anger) See hyar, Ise soed you swellin' roun' hyar consid'able, but when you talks *bout struckin' Jinny, Ise got suthin' to say. JIM: YOU'S anoder sassy nigger. But you'e fixed long wif de res' ob you 'culiar coons. Mearse gwine to sell you all down Red riber to-morrer, den I reckon Miss Jinny will have herself. An meantime I don't want any ob your sass. (Women huddle together) MAMMT: (rocking herself to and fro) Ef old Marse had libed he'd neber 'low it. O Lor', O Lor'! SAM: I jes wants you to answer one question, do you 'cider dat Jinny am your wife? JIM: Yas sar, an' you's only mad kase she aint yourn. (cracks his whip at SAM) SAM: (leaps upon him, seizes whip) You's a har sar, dats what you is! You crack your whip at me! (flourishes whip around JIM, then takes it by butt end as if to strike him with it) You say Jinny's your wife agin an' I'll mash you all up, you mean ol' yank nigger. (Chases JIM around room with whip, JIM tries to take it from him) JIM: Ef you strike me, Marse'll skun you. SAM: (contemptuously) Marser's pet! (throws whip aside) Come on, you, you lizard hearted coon, we'll hab a set-to, for Ise boun' to take your sass out on your hide. (They spar with their fists. Two or three times JIM butts at SAM, but misses him, SAM passing over his head in careless manner. Make this set-to as comical as possible) JIM: (glaring at him) O, ef I only had you tied to the widder!

PECULIAR SAM

SAM: (edging up to JIM) This thing is played out; as for havin' a common nigger talkin' tout tyiri me up, I isn't gwine to. I wouldn't be such a Seriated coon as you is for all de Norf. I want you to know dat the ascendant ob sech a 'structible fambly as I is can lick a dozen sech cantankerferous niggers as you is. You can jes look out now Ise done foolin', Ise gwine to hurt you. (They stand and glare at each other, JIM is off guard, and SAM rushes at him headfirst strikes him in the stomach, JIM staggers across room, doubles up) JIM: (howls) O, Ise gone dead, Ise gone dead. (Women rush to SAM, to hold him) SAM: (rubs his head) Jingo, dat nigger's stomick am made ob some kind ob cast of iron, I reckon. r: O sonny, sonny, Marse'll kill us all. (Enter POMP and PETE, PETE with banjo, JIM rises, groaning, limps to door) JIM: (to SAMJ Neber min' my fine genman, you'll be sol' down South, an' I'll take de res' ob it out o' Jinny. (Exit JIM hurriedly, as SAM takes two long strides toward him) PETE AND POMP: Why wha's de matter? JUNO: Sam's been showin' de oberseer how 'culiar he is, dat's all. VIRGINIA: O, let us leave as soon as possible, who can tell what may happen? SAM: Dat's jes so Jinny, (to PETE and POMPJ Boys we's gwine to board de train to-night, am you ready? PETE: Lord boy, Ise been ready for de las' year. POMP: YOU kin bet on me, kass my trunk am packed. (holds up banjo) An' I allers carries my walables wif me. SAM: Well den I'll leave you hyar wif Mammy an' de girls while I goes to reconoyster, an' see if de coas' am clar. (Exit SAMJ (MAMMY and JUNO pack up bundles, handkerchief on her head)

JUNO

ties

plain

107

1O8

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS VIRGINIA: While we are waiting for Sam let's sing again before we leave our old home. For though we leave it in darkness and sorrow, it is still our home.

(She sings solo, others join in quartet I should think "Home, Sweet Home" well sung by the soprano might be a decided hit Reenter SAM at close, dressed as gentleman overseer) JUNO: (not knowing him) See hyar Marse, you's in de wrong place. De big house am up ce road dar. SAM: (flourising whip) Why, don't you know me? ALL: Am dat you Sam? MAMMY: Why, honey, I hardly know'd my own chile. JUNO: What a peccoliar fellar you is! Look jes like a gemman. SAM: Am you ready? Now is our safest time.

(They pick up their bundles. Start for door, turn as they reach it and form tableau in door around VIRGINIA and

MAMMY,)

r: (weeping) Good-bye ole home, de place whar my chillern war born, an' my ole man am buried. Ise ole now, I may neber see you 'gin, but my chillern's gwine, an' I'm boun' to go too. So Good-bye ole home. (Chorus.

Curtain)

ACT II Scene 1 (Time, night. Front of an old hut in the woods. Enter SAM, VIRGINIA, MAMMY, JUNO, PETE,

choruses)

and POMP. Sing

several

CAESAR: (opens window as they finish) Whar in de name ob de Lor' did all you stray coons drap down from? Ef you don't go 'way from hyar mislestin' 'spectible people, I'll set de dogs onter you, so you'd better git. (Closes window)

PECULIAR SAM

SAM: (pounds at the door) OF man, olf man, open de do', it's de delegation from down de riber, don't be Yeard, its' only me, peculiar Sam. CAESAR: (opens window slowly) Aint you gone yet? You needn't tell me you's 'cular Sam, you's one ob dem tricksy mlatter fellars, dat's what you is. SAM: 'Deed it are me uncle, don't you 'member how I was to come hyar by the 'the undergroun'— CAESAR: (interrupts him) You's bin 'tirely mistook, kase dar aint no underhan' nuthin' hyar, done moved up Norf long 'go. SAM: NOW look hyar uncle dar aint no use bein' uppish, kase de black clouds am risin'. CAESAR: (astonished) Wha', wha' dat you say? Finish dat now, say de res' ob it. JUNO: Say uncle, aint you got a 'possum leg in dar, Ise mos' starved? MAMMY: YOU gal hish. SAM: Uncle dar aint nuthin' in de worl' dat tastes so sweet as a good ole ash cake. CAESAR: (excited) Dats de word! dats to word! ash cake am de word!! How you tink I gwine to kno' you, comin hyar all dressed up dat a way. MAMMT: (peers at CAESAR from under her hand) 'Pears like to me Ise seed you befo'; aint you Caesar dat used to lib down on de ol' 'Nolin plantation? CAESAR: Who dat? In course Ise Caesar, (looks at her earnestly) Why Mammy, dat aint you am it? Jes wait til I comes down dar an' takes a look at you. (disappears from window, reenters from door, MAMMY and CAESAR laugh and shake hands heartily) MAMMT: Why ol' man thought you war dead an' gone dese ten year! CAESAR: Why ol' 'ooman, Ise mighty glad to see you, you's lookin' jes as han'som' as eny gal. (still shake hands) Why whar's you all gwine? SAM: We're trablin' to Canidy. 'Deed uncle dey is gittin' so hi on des plantations dat a fellar's got to run 'way ef he's got eny 'spectible feelin's 'tall.

109

110

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

CAESAR: Well children, Ise glad you's foun' de ol' man, an' hope you'll 'scuse my 'seption, but de slabe holders am layin' fer de litioners an' I doesn't dar to breaf hard knowin' dat Ise in charge ob one ob dese stations. SAM: I tell you uncle Ise jes b'ginnin' te feel mysel', an' ef eny man puts his han' onter me to stop me dar's gwine te be trubble, kase Ise foo'ld long nuff. Ef you'll jes gib Mammy an' de gals a chance to take breaf an' den put us onto de nex station you'll lieve my min'; fer we's had a hard time, de white folks am arter us an' we's been almos' kotched, an' we haint got long to stay hyar. CHORUS: "Steal Away" CAESAR: (at close) Well son, you stay an' take keer ob de house, while I tote de folks to de car; den I'll come back fer you. SAM: All right uncle, an' ef eny body cames, I reckon I can gib dem all de defamation dey wants. Now you jez han' ober dat dressum gown an' dat cap an' I'll reguise mysel' inter them, (places wig and moustache in his pocket exchanges his coat and hatfor CAESAR 'sj CAESAR: (dons SAM'S hat and coat) 'Member honey dat de black clouds is risin' an' ash cake am de words. (all, save SAM, exit singing) SAM: (calls to VIRGINIAJ Don't git scared Jinny I'll meet you by me by. Now I reckon I'll make a reconoyster, an' den turn in an' take some sleep, (yawns, looks arounds carefully, yawns again. Disappears in hut Enter JIMJ JIM: I kno' dey mus' hab come dis way, I'm moz' sho' dis am one ob dem stations. Wonder ef dat do' am fastened, (tries door, it does not yield, knocks, no answer) Playin' 'possum, (knocks louder, no answer) Wonder ef dar aint no one hyar sho' nuff. (knocks again) SAM: (faintly, as if half asleep) Who dar? Wha's de matter? JIM: (still pounding) OF man you'd better come down hyar, I wants to see you on a very reportant matter.

PECULIAR SAM

SAM: (appears at window with lighted candle, disguised voice) What you mean comin' hyar in sech a blunderous manner? Ef you don't go 'way fro' dat do', I'll, I'll, I'll spill suthin' on you, 'deed I will. JIM: (as SAM turns to go away) See hyar uncle, you kno's me, you kno's oberseer Jim; Ise only come to ax you a few questions. SAM: Well, what you want no how? Kase Ise a gemman ob bisness, I hires my time, I does. JIM: I doesn't mean no defense uncle, but you sees some ob my nigs is runned away, an' I wants to kno' had you hyard ob dem eny whar? SAM: (in scolding voice) What you doin' lettin' your slabes run 'way? What kin' oberseer is you losin' nigs, an' den runnin' all ober creation an' ebry whar else lookin' fer em. No I haint seed 'em, I jes haint. JIM: See hyar uncle, dars a 'ward out for dem fellars, an' ef you'll gib me eny reformation, I'll 'garve some o' it fer you. SAM: Has you got eny idee whar dey is? JIM: O yas, Marse gib me a hunded dollar; an' I foller de trail up from de plantation, an' jes as I get hyar I lose it. But I reckon de litioners am running dem off. But we'll ketch 'em sho. Has you seed enythig' on 'em? SAM: Come to think ob it I did see some stray coons 'roun'. But Lot', my 'membance am so bad. JIM: (excited) You mus' 'member uncle, whar'd dey go, wha'd dey look like? SAM: 'Clar, it are clean gone from me. My membance am so bad. JIM: See hyar uncle, ef you'll tell me anythin' *bout dem fellars, I'll gib you . . . (thoughtfully) I'll gib you fifty cents. SAM: Wha's fifty cents side ob a hunded dollars? No, I don't 'member nuthin'. JIM: Ef you'll 'member anythin' t>out dem pussons uncle, I'll gib you, yas I'll gib you dollar. SAM: 'Pears like dar was a tall coon wif de crowd I see, but I isn't sho.

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

JIM: Yas! Yas! Dem's em! An' a singin' gal, say dar war a singin' gal, an' I gib you . . . (pauses) I'll gib you two whole dollars. SAM: Lor' child 'taint no use axing on me, kase I jes don' kno' wesfer I 'member dat tickler gal or not. JIM: Ef you'll jes say she war dar, kase I know'd you seed her, I'll gib you free dollars, dat's all de change Ise got. SAM: Lay de money onter de do' sill dar, den I'll see ef I can 'member any mo! (JIM lays money down) I reckon de singin' gal war wif dem fellars, reckon you'll fin' her sho nuff, when you kotch 'em. JIM: Whar'd dey go? Which way'd dey go? SAM: Down de road a piece, dar's a empty house, an' I reckon deys done gone dar. JIM: How'd you get at dat house? SAM: Reckon you'd better take de railroad track on yer right an' de woods onto your lef an' foller dat paf till you gits to a blasted juniper tree, an' when you git to dat tree you turn ober it, an' foller dat puf till you gits to de house. Ef you don't fin' it, you kin come back an' go 'roun' de tother way. JIM: (ready to start) How long's dey been gone? SAM: 'Deed it might a bin a hour 'go, an' it might a bin fourteen hour 'go; an' den agin it might a bin longer, an' it mightent a bin so long, it war some whar 'roun' dar. My membance has 'clipses wery bad, but I reckun dat's about de time dey whar hyar. (SAM disappears from window) JIM: Dat fellar aint foolin' me eny, I hasn't got fer to go to fin' dem coons; I'll kotch him. (disappears. Enter SAM from door)

SAM: (chuckles) Hope dat fellar'll fin' dat house. (laughs) Don't blive dars any sech place on de face ob de earth, (picks up money) Dis money come in right smart, it'll be mighty handy up dar in Canidy. 'Clar I wishes I could git dat hunded dollars, (enter JIM, as ghost groans, SAM turns, startled, and stands shaking in terror) Who, who'd you want to see sar? Kase

PECULIAR SAM

dar aint nobody to home, I don't lib hyar mysel' Ise jes keepin' house till de fambly 'turns, (ghost groans, extends right arm, moves slowly toward SAM, who retreats, followed by ghost, step for step) O Marse debbil, jes low me to satisfy you dat I isn't de fellar you's lookin fer, 'deed I aint, he's done gone 'way five long year 'go. (ghost draws nearer) I neber done nuthin' to nobody. I allers says my prayers ebery night, 'deed I does, (ghost places his hand on SAM. SAM falls on his knees) I'll 'fess, I'll 'fess. (his eyes fall on ghosVsfeet. SAM rises to his feet with mouth open in astonishment Aside) I know dem feet! 'Course I knows dem feet! (looks at them again) Dem's de same pair o' feet. I know dey is, kase dem feet neber growed on no oder fellar but Jim, in de worl'. (to ghost) Playin' ghos' am you? Well reckon I'll make you de sickes' ghos' in 'Merica, 'fore I'm done wif you. (ghost turns to run. SAM grapples with him. Overcomes him and has arms behind him) Gwine to leab me war you? When you kno's how Mammy an' de gals will 'mire to see a ghos'. (helps JIM to his feet) You's a pretty lookin' ghos', aint you? You's a disrace to de prefeshun. Now I wants you to hand out dat hunded dollar Marse guv you. JIM: (feebly) It's in my pants pocket. (SAM takes out pocket book, opens it disclosing bills. Forgets ghost, sits down on stage floor, begins to count, chuckling to himself) SAM: Dars a five, an' a ten, an' a one, an' a twenty. . . (JIM meantime steals along stage to entrance, stumbles in his dress, making noise, SAM stops counting, looks up, produces pistol, which he points at ghost) Come back hyar sar, ef you moves dat karkass o' yourn de lengf of a 'possum's tail, I'll make a sho nuff ghos' ob you. JIM: For de Lor's sake Sam don't shoot, Ise only playin' wif you. SAM: (rising) Well I isn't playin', an' ef you tries to git 'way I'll shoot you. Taint no harm to shoot ghosts, an' dis pistol got a piece ob silber in it, so you see Ise

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

a peculiar fellar to play wif. Recken I'd better shoot you anyway, don't blieve anythin' else will *bieve my feelin's. JIM: See hyar Sam you wouldn't hurt an unabled fellar would you? (Enter

CAESAR)

CAESAR: For de good Marser's sake boy, what is you doin\ wha's dat you got? SAM: Dis am a ghos' uncle, dat Ise captivated. He corned powlin' roun' hyar, tryin to do mischief, an" Ise been promisin' him to make a truly ghos' ob him. CAESAR: (examines JIM curiously. To SAMJ Ghos' hey! Tears like to me dat dis am oberseer Jim. SAM: Dis am dat very same ole snake. CAESAR: Well chile, I reckon de ol' manll hab to tot himself to Canidy long wif you. It's been gittin' woserer an' woserer, an' now dis fellar has foun' me out, de oF manll hab to go. SAM: Den de sooner we's gone, de better. Ise glad you's gwine uncle. Won't we be happy when we all "git on board." CHORUS: "Gospel Trail." (CAESAR disappears and returns with bundle, while SAM strikes up song and is answered by unseen chorus. They take JIM between them and exit)

Scene 2 (Scene 2 changes, disclosing interior of cavern, damp fire, table, three or Jour rude stools. Some of fugitives sitting, some stretched beforeJire) MAMMY: Wonder whar dat boy ob mine are? I tell you chillern Ise clean tuckered out, trablin' to freedom. JUNO: (sorrowfully) Dar aint no use tryin' to be like white folks, we's jus made fer nuthin' but igerrant slabes, an' I jes b'lieve God don't want nuthin' to do wid us no how.

PECULIAR SAM MAMMT: YOU Juno, hish, fer we's all His chillren, an He lubs us all. JUNO: But Mammy dey say angels am all white. How's I gwine to be a angel Mammy? I jes don' lieve God wants eny brack angels, 'deed I don', less 'tis to tote things for Him. MAMMT: Why chile, we's all to be washed in a powerful riber, an' arter that, we'll be all white. JUNO: What Mammy, white as Marse and Misse? MAMMT: Yes chile, jes as white as dem clouds Ise ofen showed you ridin' fro' God's blessed sky. JUNO: Golly! Den I wants to be washed now, so's to be sho. VIRGINIA: There Juno, don't plague Mammy any more but let's sing some of our old songs, and think we are back on the plantation. CHORUS: "Rise and Shine" (enter SAM, JIM, and CAESAR as they finish) SAM: Hyar we is Mammy all back safe, an' we's brought you a kurosity in de shape ob a ghos'. (Throws JIM OR stool. All crowd around him) MAMMT: Why honey, whar'd you git this fellar from? JUNO: Am dat J i m ? Lef me git at him! VIRGINIA: O Sam! What made you bring him here? SAM: Neber min' Jinny, he isn't gwine to tech you while Ise 'roun'. You see while I was waitin' for uncle to come back from totin' you, dis gemmun relieved himsel' to me in de shape ob a ghos' an I captivated him; fus' I thought, as he 'joyed playin' ghos', I'd sen' him whar he'd hab plenty ob dat kin' o' company; but I took the secon' thought an' recluded to tote him hyar, an' leave him to inflect on his pas', presunt, an' future kreer. (shows pistol) An' hyar's what I captivated him wif. JUNO: Why Sam dats Marser's gun! Wha'd you git dat gun from? SAM: Wha' you kno t>out dis gun, who tol' you 'twas Marser's gun?

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

JUNO: Why I kno's all *bout shootin' dat gun. I used to go up inter Misses room, an' shoot dat ol' gun at de bedstead, an' Marse he, he, Marse an' Misse wonder how dat bedstead kamed full o' holes. SAM: Well Juno, I want some liable pusson to 'gard dis gemman, 'spose you could take good care o' him. JUNO: O Sammy, please Sammy, jes lef me 'gard him, O. I take rememse care ob him. SAM: (gives her the pistol) Hyar it are, an' ef he 'tempts to git off dat stool, shoot him. (thoughtfully) Yas shoot him in de mos' convenient place, (to his mother) Now Mammy jes git dem bundles ready, kase we's got no time to tarry. JUNO: (walks around JIM, and plays at shooting him. JIM rolls his eyes in terror) Ef you move one har, yas ef you wink, I'll shoot dem feet clean off ob you. (keep this by-play through remainder of this scene) SAM: (to CAESAR) Whar's dem 'rections? CABSAR: Dey's right hyar son in de post office, (removes stone from one side of cavern, takes out paper, gives it to SAMJ Dar honey, I neber war no great at readin'; you see what dey says. SAM: (reads slowly, sometimes stopping to spell) Ef de party am large (spells) d-i, di, v-i, divide, yas dats it. Inter two parties. Some one by s-e, se, c-r-e-t, secret road, an' one by public road, an' when you gits on de oder shore you'll be teckon care on. CAESAR: (admiring SAMJ Why boy yous eddicated, dat's wha' you is. You doesn't kno' you're wally. Now 'cordin' to orders, you take one lot en' I'll tote de other wid de gal, kase she's de one dat would make trouble for us. In de oder side ob dis cave, you'll fin' a heap o' tings dat you'll kno' what to do wif. SAM: All right uncle, be ready to start when I comes back, (exit) CHORUS: "Way Over in Jordan" JUNO: (stops singing, points pistol at JIMJ I thought I hyard you wink. Kase ef I did ise gwine to shoot you right froom dem feet.

PECULIAR SAM

(reenter SAM dresssed as old man) MAMMY:

you!

(stares at him) Why boy, I hardly knowed

VIRGINIA: What

should we do without Sam? SAM: (in disguised voice) Ise ole uncle Ned, ladies an' gemmen, an' Ise trablin' to freedom, won't you lef de ole man go long wif you? (Sings old man character songs, "Old Man Jake" At close they divide into two parties, VIRGINIA goes with CAESAR and

PETE; SAM with

MAMMY, JUNO, and

POMP.

They

leave JIM, and exit singing) JUNO: NOW min', Ise commin' back to see ef you wink, an' ef you do! (points pistol at his Jeet ominously, backs out JIM moves himself, and begins to rise to hisjeet JUNO returns) I jes corned back to take a las' look at you, ef you dare to move or even breaf hard, I'll shoot de top ob dat ugly black head o' yourn clean off, 'deed I will. MAMMY: (outside) You Juno, you gal, come hyar, an' stop playin' yer tricks. JUNO: You'd better min' kase one ob dese days, 111 drap on you, an' spile de beauty ob dem understanders o' yourn. (still threatening, she exits)

(Curtain)

ACT III (Time, night Banks of a river. River at back. Trees and shrubbery along banks. Enter party led by SAMJ SAM: (looks around) See hyar Mammy, I hope nuthin' aint happened to Jinny, kase when I was on de top ob dat las' hill we crossed 'pears like I seed a lot ob white folks comin'. MAMMY: It's only through de blessin' ob de Lor', we haint been tooken long 'go. I dont' neber see wha's got inter Marser's dogs.

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS

SAM: Mammy dar aint a dog widin' ten mile roun' Marser's place, dat aint so sick he kan't hoi' his head up. 'Deed Mammy a chile could play wif 'em. MAMMY: (holds up her hands in astonishment) Wha! Wha' you been doin' to Marser's dogs? Why boy he'll kill us. SAM: He will sho nuff Mammy ef he ketches us. Marse he hab plenty ob money an' I thought I'd done nuff to 'sarve some ob it, an' I jes helped mysel' to a pocket full. An' wif some ob it I bought de stuff wha' fixed dem dogs; 'deed I did, kase dis chile am no fool. MAMMT: (more surprised) Been stealin' too. (groans) I neber 'spected dat ob you Sam. SAM: NO use Mammy, we mus' hab money, de litioners am good frien's to us, but money's ebery man's frien', an'11 neber 'tray eben a forsook coon. JUNO: (has been looking anxiously up the road) Dey's comin Mammy! Here's Jinny Sam. (All rush to look up road. VIRGINIA sings solo, all join in chorus. At close enter CAESAR, VINGINIA, and PETE, throw down bundles, embrace) CAESAR: Well my chillern, we's almos' free de dark valley, le's sing one mo' hymn 'fo' we bids good-bye to de sunny Souf. CHORUS: "Old Kentucky Home" SAM: (as they close picks up bundle) Come on Mammy, come on Jinny, le's git on board de raf. I tell you chillern I feels so happy I doesn't kno' mysel'. Jes feel dis air, it smells like freedom; jes see dose trees, dey look like freedom, (points across river) an' look ober yonder chillern, look dar good, dat ar am ol' freedom himsel'. (gets happy, begins to sing) "Dar's only one mo' riber to cross."

(All join in song, shake hands, laugh and shout, exit. Singing grows fainter, but louder as raft shoots into sight, JIM rushes panting on the stage, peers after raft Tableau, music growing fainter) (Curtain)

PECULIAR SAM

ACT IV (The time is after the war in Canada. The place is an old fashioned kitchen with a fireplace. There is a door at back and a window at the right with closed inside blinds. Mammy sits at table knitting, Caesar, her husband now, sits before fireplace. CAESAR: Or 'ooman it are a long time sense we an' de chillern lef de oF home, seems to me de Lor' has blessed us all. Hyars you an' me married, Jinny a singist, Juno a school marm; an' las' but not leas', dat boy, dat pecoolar Sam, eddicated an' gwine to de United States Congress. I tell you ol' 'ooman de ways ob de Lor' am pas' findin' out. MAMMY: Yas oF man, an' hyar we is dis blessed Christmas evenin', a settin' hyar like kings an' queens, waitin', fer dat blessed boy o' ours to come home to us. Tell you oF man, it's 'mazin' how dat boy has 'scaped de gins an' sneers ob de worl', an' to-day am runnin' fer Congress dar in Cincinattie, it am 'mazin. D' ye s'pose he'll git it oF man? CAESAR: I don't spec' nothin' else, kase dat boy allers gits what he goes fer. But it's 'mos' time fer de train, wonder whar dem gals is. (song by VIRGINIA, behind scenes, after style of "Swanee River") MAMMT: (at close) OF man, Ise totable 'tented hyar till I hears dat dear chile sing dem oF songs, in dat angel voice ob hers, an' den I feels so bad, kase dey carries me way bact to dem good oF times dat'll neber return. De oF plantation, an' Mistis an' oF Marser, an' de dear little lily chillern; thar I kin seem to see de fiel's ob cotton, an' I kin seem to smell de orange blossoms dat growed on de trees down de carriage drive. (wipes her eyes) Ise been totable 'tented hyar, but I boun' to trabble back 'gin 'fo' I die. CAESAR: (wiping his eyes) An' oF 'ooman, ef de oF man dies firs', bury me at oF Marser's feet, under de 'Nolin tree.

(Clocks strikes seven. Enter VIRGINIA and JUNOJ

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120

PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS VIRGINIA: O, Mammy isn't it time for the train yet? It seems as if the hours would never pass (Throws open

the blinds, disclosing moonlight on the snow. She stands looking out)

JUNO: Virginia you're not the only anxious one. How I do long to see my dear old fellow, my own old Sam. I tell you Mammy I could dance, (places her hands in

her apron pockets, and takes two or three steps oj ajig)

MAMMY: (interrupts her) Quit dat, you Juno, quit dat. 'Deed I neber seed sech a crazy head as you has got. GAESAR: Mammy do lef dat gal lone, let her 'joy herself, fer I does like to see young people spirited. JUNO: Of course you do Poppy, (hugs him with one arm around the neck) And just to think, if Sam's elected you'll be poppy to a representative, and Mammy'll be mother to one, and I'll be sister to one. (to VIRGINIAJ And what'll you be to him, Jinny? VIRGINIA: Don't talk about that Juno; there can be nothing done until Jim is found, (turns to come from

window)

r: (listens) Shh! I thought I hyard sleigh bells!

(All listen. Tableau. Sleigh bells outside) SAM: (outside) Whoa! ALL: It's Sam! (rush to door. Enter SAM, all surround him, and advance to footlights followed by PETE and POMP) SAM: (throws off wraps, JUNO carries them off, returns immediately) Yes, it is I, and I cannot tell you how happy I am to be at home once more. PETE: Jes tell us one thing cap'n, 'fore you goes eny farther, is you lected? VIRGINIA: Yes, Sam do relieve our anxiety. SAM: I think you may safely congratulate me, on a successful election. My friends in Cincinnati have stood by me nobly.

PECULIAR SAM MAMMY: Praise de Lord! Chillern I hasn't nuthin' lef to lib fer. PETE: (he and POMP shake hands with SAM in congratulation) Ol' fellar Ise glad of it. Now 111 jes step out an' put up dat annimal, an' then return, (exit door) CAESAR: (goes up to SAMJ Lef me look at you, I wants to see ef you's changed eny. (shakes his head solemnly) No, you's all dar jes de same, (to MAMMYJ Ol' 'ooman, I allers knowed dat boy neber growed dat high fer nuthin'.

(Reenter PETE. Company seat themselves) JUNO: If things don't stop happening I shall have to get Someone to hold me. Virginia, imagine you and me at Washington leading the colored bong tongs. O my! (fans herself, laughter)

SAM: (to VIRGINIA) Haven't you one word for me, Vir-

ginia?

VIRGINIA: Find

Jim, and we will be happy. SAM: Well, then sing for me. Surely you cannot refuse this request. (Solos, quartets, and chorus. Mr. [Sam] Lucas introduces any of his songs that have not been sung elsewhere. At close loud knocking at door) Wonder who dat is? (all rise) SAM: (hurries to door, opens it. JIM rushes past him into room) Whom do you wish to see sir? I think you have made a mistake. CAESAR: (aside) 'Pears like I know dat fellar. JIM: (looks smilingly around) Don't you know me? Well I don't reckon you do, bein's Ise changed so. There's my card, (gives immense card to SAM) SAM: (reads) "Mr. James Peters, Esq., D.D., attorney at law, at the Massachusetts bar, and declined overseer of the Magnolia plantation." (all astonished, VIRMAMMY:

GINIA shrinks

behind

MAMMY,)

JIM: (bows profoundly) Dat's me. Declined overseer ob de 'Nolia plantation.

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PAULINE ELIZABETH HOPKINS JUNO: Overseer Jim, as I live, turned monkey! (exits hurriedly) SAM: If you have come here to create a disturbance, sir, I warn you to go out the way you came in, or 111 throw you out. JUNO: (reenters on a run, with pistol; rushes at JIMJ Did you wink, did you dare to wink? JIM: (frightened, stumbles over two or three chairs. Groans) O Lord no! (to company) Don't let her shoot me, Ise oly called hyar to 'stantiate myself an' be frien's long wif you. (JUNO lays pistol aside, laughing) SAM: Well sir, state your business, and be quick about it. JIM: (goes toward VIRGINIA followed by SAMJ Virginie, you needn't be 'fraid on me, kase I isn't hyar to mislest you. Chile, I kno's dat warnt no weddin', de law wouldn't low it nohow, (to all) An' den you see, I has no free distution ob mysel' at all, kase Ise got a truly wife, an' Ise got twins, a boy an' gal; one's nam'd Jinny an' de tother on Sam. (laughter) SAM: Mr. Peters I congratulate you, you have certainly made the most of your freedom. JIM: (strutting up and down) Fac'! An' you's all hyar. Mammy and Caesar, an' the Virginie rose-bird, an' Juno, and Pete, and Pomp, (slaps SAM on arm) Ol' ol' Sam himself, (SAM shrinks) O, I know you feel big, but I can't forgit dem ol' times, an' what a chase I had after you, an' then jes missed of you. MAMMT: Well tell us Jim, wha' ol' Marse done, when he foun' we was gone?

(all gather around JIMJ JIM: FUS' place you see, I had to walk clean back home, kase dat pecoolar rascal thar, stole all my money, (laughter) An' when I had done got back, Marse he nigh took all de skin off this ol' back o' mine; an' I declar, I wished I'd gone long wif you. Well arter that ol' Lincoln sent his sogers down dar, an' Marse he runned 'way an' seein' he didn't stop for his valuables, I propitiated 'em to my private uses. Then I started North, got as far as Massatoosetts, found the eddica-

PECULIAR SAM

tional devantages were 'ery perfectible, an' hyar I is, one ob de pillows ob de Massatoosetts bar. SAM: Well Jim, I forgive you freely for all that's past, and here's my hand on it. (JIM shakes hands all around to VIRGINIAJ And now Virginia I await your answer, when shall our wedding take place? MAMMY: Gals neber know nothin' *bout sech things; an' seein's tomorror's Christmas, we'll celebrate it wif a weddin', whether Jinny's willin' or not. What dyo say ol' man? CAESAR: Den is jes' my senimens ol' 'ooman, well has a weddin'. (SAM

and VIRGINIA talk at one side)

JUNO: Somebody hold me, or I shall bust. I'm so full. (to company) Come on boys and girls, let's have an ol' Virginia, it's the only safe exit for surplus steam. CAESAR: (rising) Dat's jes the thing, I feel mysel' growin' twenty-five years younger dis blessed minute, aint dat so ol' 'ooman? MAMMY: Dat's jes so ol' man. JUNO: But Lor', I forgot, we can't dance anything but high-toned dances, we must remember that ther's the dignity of an M.C. to be upheld. But anyhow, you fellows have out the chairs and things, an' we'll have a quadrille.

Stage cleared. Lively music. Each ner, PETE with JUNO, JIM with POMP, through three or Jour figures lively, CAESAR begin to get happy. Suddenly rushes to footlights)

one selects part-

SAM as caller. Go JUNO, MAMMY, and SAM stops calling,

SAM: Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will excuse me for laying aside the dignity of an elected M.C, and allow me to appear before you once more as peculiar Sam of the old underground railroad. (Plantation chorus, SAM dancing to "Golden Slippers,9' remainder happy) (Curtain)

123

Katherine D. Chapman Tillman (1870-193?)

124

Katherine Tillman was born in 1870 in Mound City, Illinois, to Charles and Laura Chapman. Her mother was a gifted schoolteacher and writer from whom young "Kate" (as she was known throughout her life) received inspiration and guidance. The first poem that came from her pen, when she was only thirteen, was occasioned by a severe illness and was entitled "The Dying Child." She received her early education in the local public schools and the high school of Yankton, South Dakota. When she was eighteen, her first published poem, called "Memory," appeared in the Christian Recorder. A little later, her first story was accepted for Our Women and Children. Determined to liberate her mind through education, she attended the state university at Louisville, Kentucky, then transferred to one of the first institutions of higher education for her people, Wilberforce University in southern Ohio. Most of the state's growing black population lived in that area (about seventy-five thousand at the time), and she was able to observe firsthand the conditions they had to endure, especially the women. One of her most popular poems, "A Question of Today" (which appears in Lawson Scruggs, Women of Distinction), outspokenly identifies white racism with the suppression of women's rights, anticipating the ideol-

KATHERINE D. CHAPMAN TILLMAN ogy of some black feminists of today. Despite recurrent health problems, she continued to write both prose and poetry for the leading black papers of the time. Tillman then turned to playwriting, and Aunt Betsy's Thanksgiving was published in Philadelphia by AME Book Concern, the same house that published her five-act play Fifty Years of Freedom; or From Cabin to Congress in 1910 and Recitations, a collec-

tion of verses suitable for churches and schools. In 1921, she edited Quotations from Negro Authors (Fort Scott, Kansas), and in 1922, she wrote The Spirit of Allen, a pageant of African Methodism. She also authored a volume of short stories for girls. All are rare books. In Aunt Betsy's Thanksgiving, violence and alcoholism loom in the background of the absent male figure, but the moral probity of the women and the responsible, caring behavior of Mr. Rodney more than balance those failings of the fragile flesh. The third scene dramatizes a fantasy—the dream of all Americans come true. Almost as a demonstration that the world she brings to life on the stage is not dominated by white sensibility, Tillman dispenses with the stereotype of the white authority that occurs with some frequency in black literature. It is interesting that a white lawyer (Sparks) helps to make this dream come true. The playwright's command of both black dialect and standard English enables her to make the words of her characters appropriate and convincing. References Scruggs, Lawson. Women of Distinction. Intro, by Josephine Turpin Washington. Raleigh, N.C.: L. A. Scruggs, 1893. Tillman, Katherine D. Fifty Years of Freedom, or From Cabin to Congress. Philadelphia: AME Book Concern, 1910.

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Aunt Betsy's Thanksgiving Katherine D. Chapman Tillman CHARACTERS AUNT BETST

CA'LINE, her granddaughter SPARKS, a lawyer NELLIE RODNET, Aunt Betsy's RODNET, Nellie's husband

daughter

Scene I (A cabin plainly furnished; family portraits on the wall; Aunt Betsy sits pipe in mouth) AUNT BETSY: Little did I think I'd eber come to dis: Heah I am nigh on to seventy yeahs ole and not a soul to care whedder I lib or die, cepn 'tis Ca'line, my Nellie's lil gal. Lil Ca'line is a mighty heap of company for me, but I spect I'll hab to let 'em take her to de po' house, long side of me, fore many mo' suns'll rise an' set. Long as I could get roun' an' work de garden, I could get long all right, but since I done fell down an' broke my leg, I ain't been no 'count tall, cepn to patch,

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Originally published in Philadelphia by the AME Book Concern, c. 1914.

AUNT BETSYS THANKSGIVING 1 2 7

an' to save my life I can't make enuf to git grub an' does for me an' Ca'line. Ef I had to pay rent for dis cabin I jes' gib up rite now an' go off to de po' house without a word, case I'd jes kno' I couldn't do it, but I've libed heah now, nigh on to fifteen yeahs an' dey ain't nebber axed me fo' no rent, an' I guess surely dey ain't gwine gin now. (Enter CA'LINE with a basket) CA'LINE: Oh, grammer, what you reckon? I met a cullud lady on de street down in town, an' she look at me as hard an' axe me my name an' how ole I was, an' den she said she knowed you when she's a lil gal lak me an' she gwine to sen' you a present an' she went in Mr. Paul's sto' an' got dese things I'se brought home. (points to basket of parcels which she has set on the table) AUNT BETSY: (rising) Ca'line Johnson, am you lying? You ain't done gone an' stole fo' de fus' time in yo' lil life is you? What lady gib you de things? Talk quick, an' ef you's took what didn't belong to you, dars gwine be trouble 'tween me an' you, dats all! GA'LINB: (shrinkingly) Oh grammer, cose I ain't lying, I dunno who 'twas. Twas a yaller lady all dressed up fine, and she talked nice and soft like, an' she kissed me, too. Ef you don't believe me you can axe Mrs. Price's Ella. AUNT BETSY: Shut your mouf Ca'line. Hits all rite. De Lawd hab pervided, dat's all. I was an unfaithful servant to doubt Him for a moment. Didn't He feed 'Lijah when he was in the wilderness, an' aint He promised to feed His children. God bless dat cullud woman who eber she is. I hope I'll fin' out who she is an' whar she's from. CA'LINE: (taking out parcels) Bread, tea, sugar, bacon, eggs, butter and oh Lordy, grammer, here's a silver dollar! (capers around) AUNT BETSY: Praise de Lawd fo' His mercies. Now I'se gwine git you a new pair of shoes fo' yo' po' lil feet so you can go to Sunday school. Po' lil lamb, if yo' po'

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mamma hadn't been taken from yo\ you'd been a heap different chile. CA'LINE: Grandma, where is my mamma now? AUNT BETSY: Well, 111 Ca'line. Ill tell you *bout Nellie. You'se twelve yeahs ole now an' ought to know. When Ben Johnson married my Nellie she was counted de prettiest cullud gal in Buckner county. I didn't want her to hab Ben Johnson, but she said she loved him an' after they married he led her a dog's life. He was always drinking and carrying on, an' one night, in one of his drunken fits he threw you outen de cradle an' Nellie sprung on him like a wil' cat, an' he'd a killed her ef some men hadn't cum in an' stopped him. Nellie ran away that night, thinking that you was dead an' she ain't nebber come back. I heard once dat she was dead an' again dat she was traveling with a show. I brought you home dat night an' I'se kept you eber since. Ben drank himself to death, an' I was glad when he was gone, do' I nursed him while he was sick an' tried to pint him to de Lamb dat takes away de sins of the world. CA'LINE: (softly) Was he afraid to die grammer? AUNT BETSY: NO honey, he said dat God had forgive him an' he hoped to meet Nellie in heaben an' tell her how sorry he was fo' de way he treated her. CA'LINE: Oh grammer, if mammy'd only come back an' live with us, wouldn't it be nice? You'd have someone to take care of you, an' I'd have nice dresses like Mrs. Price's Ella, an' go to school every day. I'm going to pray to God to fin' her an' sen' her home. AUNT BETSY: He's the one to pray to lil Ca'line. I don' kno' whether Nellie is living or not, God knows an' I pray every day dat ef she is He'll sen' her home. Set dese things in de cupboard Ca'line, an' den we'll read a chapter em' go to bed. (AUNT BETSY opens the Bible for CA'LINE. CA'LINE, seated on a stool at her grammer's Jeet, opens her mouth as

if to read, AUNT BETSY listens attentively)

(Curtain falls)

AUNT BETSYS THANKSGIVING

Scene II (Same as first AUNT BETSY is darning) AUNT BETSY: A week don' pas' an' gone an' dat cullud woman ain't showed herself yet. I wonder who she was. I kinder thought maybe it was Nellie, but surely she wouldn't come that close 'thout coming to de house. Dem groceries dat woman sent is mos' gone an' de money on Ca'line's feet, but I ain't gwine worry. Don't de Lawd allus pervide.

(Someone

raps)

AUNT BETSY: Come in. Hope dats somebody bringing me some mo' patchin'.

(Enter LAWYER SPARKS) LAWYER SPARKS: Howdy, Aunt Betsy, (shakes hands. Aside) (I hate to tell her.) How are you faring these hard times? AUNT BETSY: Pretty well, sah, Mr. Sparks, considering my age an' condition. How's yo' family, sah? LAWYER SPARKS: All well, thank you, Aunt Betsy. (aside) (It's a nasty job.) The fact is, Aunt Betsy, I've come to tell you that Colonel Herrington has sold this cabin and the ground it's on and you will have to give it up at once as the owner will doubtless build. AUNT BETSY: (rising) Dis cabin sol' an' heah I'se libed fifteen yeahs. What on earth is I to do? (cries) LAWYER SPARKS: I am sorry, but those are my orders from Colonel Herrington's agent. Perhaps if you write Colonel Herrington, it might do some good. I'll see you again. Good day.

(Exit SPARKSJ AUNT BETSY: (still crying) De hour hab come at las'. Po' lil Ca'line an' me mus' go to de po' house to be cuffed aroun' like all de res' of de po' outcasts dat am gathered there.

(Enter CA'LINEJ

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KATHERINE D. CHAPMAN TILLMAN

GA'LINE:

you?

What's de matter grammer, does yo' leg pain

AUNT BETSY: NO, it's my heart. De cabin's sol' an' we ain't got no place to go. Colonel Herrington done sold de roof over his ole mammy's head after promising I'd always hab a home. GA'LINE: I don' believe Colonel Herrington done it grammer. Dat Mr. Sparks done it case he kno's Colonel Herrington is in Europe. Don't cry grammer, I'll be growed up soon an' I'll work an' buy you another cabin a heap nicer dan dis ole shack! Who bought it, grammer? AUNT BETSY: I didn't axe. It was enuf to kno' dat it was sol'. Hush, ain't dat somebody knockin'?

(Reenter LAWYER SPARKSJ LAWYER SPARKS: Well, Aunt Betsy I'm here again. I have some more news fo' you. I just met my boy with my mail and I waylaid him and made him give it up. I find a very important bit of news for you in one of the letters. AUNT BETSY: (in despair) Does we have to go to-day? LAWYER SPARKS: NO, no, my good woman, listen while I read this letter, (opens letter, reads) Lawyer Sparks:— Dear Sir:— I learn that you are Colonel Herrington's attorney and I desire you to act for me in reference to the property that I have purchased of him. I understand that there is an excellent old lady on the place and I don't wish her disturbed during the fall and winter months at least. AUNT BETSY:

Amen!

LAWYER SPARKS: (smiles

and resumes reading)

I want four good rooms built on in modern style and the room now standing to be used as a kitchen. The expense of building must not exceed $250.00. Also you can draw on me for $3.00 a month to pay the old lady for taking care of the place until I come. Respectfully, Sylvia Dean.

AUNT BETSTS THANKSGIVING AUNT BETSY: Praise de Lawd. Glory to de King! Does you hear that, 111 Ca'line. We don' hab to move. I'm dat happy I could shout. LAWYER SPARKS: Here are your first three dollars and I will add two more to help fix Ca'line for school. I have a heart somewhere about me if I am a lawyer. CA'LINE: (Jumping up and down) Oh goody, goody, goody!

Scene III (Prettily furnished sitting room; bird in window, books, pictures, AUNT BETSY in pretty flowered dress is darning, CA'LINE pores over her school books) AUNT BETSY: Well, well, dese las' few months jes' pas' by lak a dream. I'se had plenty flour, plenty meat an' plenty fire. God bless dat Miss Dean an' now this is Thanksgiving eve an' to-morrow she's gwine come to see how we's getting along. CA'LINE: She mus' hab lots of money. Don' built dis nice parlor wid de big winder fo' flowers an' sent all dis nice furniture to fix up de house, an' a box of clothes 'sides. AUNT BETSY: I'se tried to keep de furniture jes' lak she sent it. CA'LINE: YOU certny keep it kivered up good grammer, I ain't never knowed what color de sofa was till tonight. AUNT BETSY: I guess not, case I sewed de kivers all down an' I jes took 'em off to-day, so everything'd look peart when she come to-morrow, an' I'm jes dressed up an' setting in here to-night to kinder practice an' know how to act to-morrow. I 'clare I feel as good as white folks. CA'LINE: YOU is as good as dey is. All of us is if we behave ourselves! Teacher said so. AUNT BETSY: Dat teacher better be careful what he says *bout white folks. Never mind whether we's as good as dey is or not. Git all de learning an' de sense

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KATHERINE D. CHAPMAN TILLMAN

dat you kin git, an' youll be all right. Don't kno' what Miss Dean might do fo' you ef she takes a likin' to you. GA'LINE: I heard that Colonel Everly done give some smart colored man groun' enuf to build a college here at Everly fo' de cullud folks. AUNT BETSY: Hi yi, dats good news. I hope I'll git you in Ca'line. Well, I'se sleepy. Guess I'll nod a bit. (AUNT BETSY nods) (Door opens. Enter MR RODNEY with a large basket from which turkey feathers protrude, NELLIE RODNEYJollows him carrying a valise, CA'LINE starts and stares with open eyes, NELLIE stoops over AUNT BETSY and kisses her, then kisses CA'LINE, then rushes again to AUNT BETSYJ

NELLIE: Mother, oh mother, here is your child, your long lost Nellie, come home at last, and oh Caroline, my precious child! AUNT BETSY: (waking up and staring) Is dis you Mis' Deane? We's powerful glad to see you. Lawd hab mercy, it's my own Nellie, glory, glory, glory. Praise de lamb. (hugs her and cries for joy) Where you been all dis time, Nellie, an' who dis man wid you? NELLIE: This is Harry Rodney, my husband, mother. He is very smart and is going to build a college here for colored boys and girls. CA'LINE: Grammer, dis is de lady gib me dem groceries an' dat dollar. NELLIE: Mother, forgive me, it was I. I had given you up as dead long ago, in fact I had been told that you was, and of course I thought Caroline was dead. Colonel Everly had given Mr. Rodney some land for a school here at Everly. I had worked hard for years for a home of my own and had bought this land through a white friend from the North, not knowing that you lived on it or lived anywhere on earth. When I saw Caroline that day, the truth flashed on my mind, but knowing the prejudice against colored people getting good property, by the advice of my white friend, Mrs. Sylvia Deane, I went away without seeing you until

AUNT BETSTS THANKSGIVING

now. I cannot tell you all my story now, but I am here to be with you and Caroline always. MR. RODNEY: We worked to give our mother and daughter this happy surprise. We have got home in time to eat our Thanksgiving turkey with our loved ones. Nellie had more patience than I to wait two whole months without seeing you after knowing of your whereabouts, but that was best for us all. Our white friends did not object to Aunt Betsy's cabin, but many of them will object to Aunt Betsy's cottage furnished, as it will be, with all modern improvements. Dear mother, believe me when I say, I have come to be a son to you in your old age, and a father to Caroline. (Curtain Jails)

133

Mary Burrill (1884-1946)

134

From 1905 until her retirement in early 1944, Mary (or Mamie P.) Burrill taught English and drama, primarily at Dunbar High School in Washington, D.C. According to James Butcher, a drama professor at Howard University who had been her student, "Ms. Burrill held very high standards and was respected by her students. She emphasized speech, diction, and taught 'dramatics,' which included play performances, interpretative reading or as it was called then—declamation. She herself gave readings and her annual presentation of 'The Other Two Wise Men' at Howard University was considered a ritual part of the Christmas season." As far as it is known, she wrote only two plays: They That Sit in Darkness (1919) and Aftermath (1919), both one-acts with social messages. They That Sit in Darkness, published in the Birth Control Review, concerns a young black girl who must abandon hope of attending college when her mother dies after the birth of a seventh child. As the eldest child, the daughter must remain home to care for her brothers and sisters. The play makes clear that the mother's death was the result of bearing too many children because the law had denied her contraceptive information. Burrill's second play, Aftermath, published in April

MARY BURRILL

1919, anticipates the "Red Summer" of 1919, when from June through September riots broke out in Washington, Chicago, Charleston, Knoxville, Omaha, and elsewhere. The play is a bitter and militant story of a black soldier returning from World War I to his Carolina home. Many Blacks had been skeptical about fighting in a war for freedoms which they themselves did not enjoy; however, after the American government arrested the black editors of The Messenger for violation of the Espionage Act, black public opposition became less vocal. W. E. B. Du Bois, in a Crisis editorial, reversed his earlier stance and told Blacks, "while this war lasts, forget our special grievances and close our ranks shoulder to shoulder with our own white fellowcitizens and the allied nations that are fighting for democracy." However, by 1919, when thousands of black veterans who had fought in Europe "to make the world safe for democracy," returned to suffer the same vicious racism they had left behind, it became apparent to Du Bois that American democracy would not be extended to Blacks. He wrote in The Crisis: "They cheat us and mock us; they kill us and slay us; they deride our misery. When we plead for the naked protection of the law . . . , they tell us to 'GO TO HELL!' " His call became "FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!" Against this background, Burrill published her play in a white, left-wing periodical, Liberator (1918-1924), edited by the socialist Max Eastman. Later, the same year following the riots of the Red Summer, Liberator published Claude McKay's sonnet "If We Must Die." The play was produced by the Krigwa Players, Little Negro Theatre, New York, May 1928. For most of her adult life, Burrill shared a house with Howard University's first dean of women, Lucy D. Slowe, and taught English and speech classes at Dunbar, where she inspired two generations of students to love and participate in theater. Although a private and outwardly conservative woman, Burrill held strong beliefs in education and social progress which she expressed through her teaching and through the publi-

135

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MARY BURRILL

cation of her plays. She is buried in Washington's Woodlawn Cemetery. References Interview. Oral History Tapes. Hatch-Billops Collection. James Butcher, September 1987. Burrill, Mary. "They That Sit in Darkness." Black Theater USA, ed. James Hatch and Ted Shine. New York: Free Press, 1974, p. 178.

Aftermath Mary Burrill CHARACTERS a young woman MAM SUE, an old woman REV. LUKE MOSEBY, a clergyman LONNIE, a young man MRS. HAWKINS, a friend JOHN, a soldier MILLIE,

Time: The present Place: The Thornton Cabin in South Carolina. It is late afternoon of a cool day in early spring. A soft afterglow pours in at the little window of the Thornton cabin. The light Jails on MILLIE, a slender brown girl of sixteen, who stands near the window ironing. She wears a black dress and a big gingham apron. A clothes-horse weighted down with freshly ironed garments is nearby. In the rear there is a door leading out to the road. To the left another door leads into the other room of the cabin. To the right there is a great stone hearth blackened by age. A Bible rests on the mantel over the hearth. An old

Originally published in the Liberator (April 1919).

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MARY BURRILL

armchair and a small table on which is a kerosene lamp are near the hearth. In the center of the room sits a well-scrubbed kitchen table and a substantial wooden chair. In front of the hearth, in a low rocking chair drawn close to the smouldering wood fire, sits MAM SUE busily sewing. The many colors in the old patchwork quilt that she is mending, together with the Jaded red of the bandanna on her head, contrast strangely with her black dress, MAM SUE is very old. Her ebony face is seamed with wrinkles; and in her bleared, watery eyes there is a world-old sorrow. A service flag containing one star hangs in the little window of the cabin. MAM SUE: (crooning the old melody) O, yes, yonder comes mah Lawd, He is comin' dis way Wid his sword in his han' O, yes, yonder comes— (A burning log Jails apart, and MAM SUE suddenly stops singing and gazes intently at the fire. She speaks in deep mysterious tones to MILLIE, who has finished her task and has come to the hearth to put up her irons) See dat log dah, Millie? De one fallin' tuh de side dah wid de big flame lappin' 'round hit? Dat means big doin's 'round heah tonight! MILLIE: (with a start) Oh, Mam Sue, don' you go proph'sying no mo'! You seen big doin's in dat fire de night befo' them w'ite devuls come in heah an' tuk'n po' dad out and bu'nt him! MAM SUE: (calmly) No, Millie, Ah didn' see no big doin's dat night—Ah see'd evul doin's an' Ah tole yo' po' daddy to keep erway fom town de nex' day wid his cotton. Ah jes knowed dat he wuz gwine to git in a row wid dem w'ite debbils—but he wou'd'n lis'n tuh his ole mammy—De good Lawd sen' me dese warnin's in dis fiah, jes lak He sen' His messiges in de fiah to Moses. Yo' chillun bettah lis'n to—

AFTERMATH MILLIE: (nervously) Oh, Mam Sue, you skeers me when you talks erbout seein' all them things in de fire— MAM SUB: Yuh gits skeered case yuh don'put yo' trus' in de good Lawd! He kin tek keer o' yuh no mattuh whut com'! MILLIE: (bitterly) Sometimes I thinks that Gawd's done fu'got us po' cullud people. Gawd didn' tek no keer o' po' dad and he put his trus' in Him! He uster set evah night by dis fire at dis here table and read his Bible an' pray—but jes look whut happen' to dad! That don' look like Gawd wuz tekin' keer— SUE: (sharply) Heish yo' mouf, Millie! Ah ain't a-gwine to 'ave dat sinner-talk 'roun' hyeah! (derisively) Gawd don't tek no keer o' yuh? Ain't yuh bin prayin' night an' mawnin' fo' Gawd to sen' yo' brudder back f'om de war live an' whole? An' ain't yuh git dat lettah no longer'n yistiddy sayin' dat de fightin's all done stopp't an' dat de blessid Lawd's done brung yo' brudder thoo all dem battuls live an' whole? Don' dat look lak de Lawd's done 'membered yuh? MILLIE: (thoughtfully) I reckon youse right, Mam Sue. But ef anything had a-happen' to John I wuz'n evah goin' to pray no mo'!

goes to the clothes-horse and folds the garments and lays them carefully into a large basket MAM SUE falls again to her crooning) (MILLIE

MAM SUE:

O, yes, yonder comes mah Lawd, He's comin' dis way-a. MILLIE: Lonnie's so late gittin' home tonight; I guess I'd bettah tek Mis' Hart's wash home tonight myse'f. MAM SUE: Yas, Lonnie's mighty late. Ah reckons you'd bettah slip erlon' wid hit. (MILLIE gets her hat from the acijoining room and is about to leave with the basket when MAM SUE calls significantly) Millie? MILLIE: Yas, Mam

Sue.

MAM SUE: (firmly) Don' yo' fu'git to drap dat lettah fu' John in de Pos' Awfus ez yuh goes by. Whah's de lettah?

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MARY BURRILL MILLIE: (reluctantly)

But, Mam Sue, please don' lets—

(A knock is heard, MILLIE opens the door and REV. LUKE enters, MOSEBY is a wiry little old man with a black, kindly face, and bright searching eyes; his woolly hair and beard are snow-white. He is dressed in a rusty black suit with a coat of clerical cut that comes to his knees. In one hand he carries a large Bible, and in the other, a stout walking stick) MOSEBY

MILLIE: Good

evenin', Brother Moseby, come right in. Good eben\ Millie. Good eben\ Mam Sue. Ah jes drap't in to see ef you-all is still trus'in de good Lawd an'— MAM SUE: Lor', Brudder Moseby, ain't Ah bin trus'n' de good Lawd nigh onter dese eighty yeah! Whut fu' yuh think Ah's gwine to quit w'en Ah'm in sight o' de Promis' Lan'? Millie, fetch Brudder Moseby dat cheer. MOSEBY: (drawing his chair to the fire) Dat's right, Mam Sue, you jes a-keep on trus'n an' prayin' an evahthing's gwine to come aw-right. (observing MILLIE is about to leave) Don' lemme 'tain yuh, Millie, but whut's all dis good news wese bin heahin' *bout yo' brudder John? Dey say he's done won some kind o' medal ober dah in France? MILLIE: (brightening up) Oh, yes, we got a lettah day befo' yestiddy f'om John tellin' us all erbout it. He's won de War Cross! He fought off twenty Germuns all erlone an' saved his whole comp'ny an' the gret French Gen'rul come an' pinned de medal on him, hissej! MOSEBY: De Lawd bles' his soul! Ah know'd dat boy wud mek good! MILLIE: (excited by the glory of it all) An' he's been to Paris, an' the fines' people stopp't him when they seen his medal, an' shook his han' an' smiled at him— an' he kin go evahwhere, an' dey ain't nobody all the time a-lookin' down on him, an' a-sneerin' at him 'cause he's black; but evahwhere they's jes gran' to him! An' he sez it's the firs' time evah in his life he's felt lak a real, sho-nuf man! MOSEBY:

AFTERMATH 1 4 1 MOSEBT: Well, honey, don't de Holy Book say, "De fust shill be las' and de las' shill be fust"? MAM SUE: (fervently) Dat hit do! An' de Holy Book ain't nebber tole no lie! MOSEBY: Folks ober in Char'ston is sayin' dat some sojers is gwine to Ian' dah today or tomorrer. Ah reckons day'll all be comin' long soon now dat de war's done stopp't. MILLIE: I jes hates the thought of John comin' home an' hearin' *bout dad! MOSEBT: (in astonishment) Whut! Yuh mean to say yuh ain't 'rite him iDOut yo' daddy, yit? MAM SUE: Dat she ain't! Millie mus' 'ave huh way! She lowed huh brudder ough'n be tole, an' dat huh could keep on writin' to him jes lak huh dad wuz livin'—Millie allus done de writin'—An' Ah lets huh 'ave huh way— MOSEBT: (shaking his head in disapproval) Yuh mean tuh say— MILLIE: (pleading) But, Brother Moseby, I couldn't write John no bad news w'ilst he wuz way over there by hisse'f. He had 'nuf to worry him with death a'starin' him in the face evah day! MAM SUE: Yas, Brudder Moseby, Millie's bin carryin' on dem lies in huh lettahs fu' de las' six months; but today Ah jes sez to huh—Dis war done stopp't now, an' John he gwine to be comin' home soon, an' he ain't agwine to come hyeah an' fin' me wid no lie on mah soul! An' Ah med huh set down an' tell him de whole truf. She's gwine out to pos' dat lettah dis minute. MOSEBT: (still disapproving) No good nebber come—

(The door is pushed violently open, and LONNIE, a sturdy black boy of eighteen rushes in breathlessly) LONNIE: Mam

Sue!

Millie! Whut'da yuh think?

John's come home! MILLIE:

(speechless

Home? Where's he at?

with astonishment) John?

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MAM SUE: (incredulously) Whut yuh sayin'? John done come home? Bles' de Lawd! Bles' de Lawd! Millie, didn' Ah tell yuh sumpin wuz gwine tuh happen? LONNIE: (excitedly) I wuz sweepin' up de sto' jes befo' leavin' an' de phone rung—it wuz John—he wuz at Char'ston—jes landid! His company's waitin' to git de ten o'clock train fu' Camp Reed, whah dey's goin' to be mustered out. MOSEBT: But how's he gwine to get erway? LONNIE: Oh, good evenin', Brother Moseby, Ise jes so 'cited I didn' see yuh—Why his Cap'n done give him leave to run over heah 'tell de train's ready. He ought tuh be heah now 'cause it's mos' two hours sence he wuz talkin'— MAM SUE: Whuffo yuh so long comin' home an' tellin' us? LONNIE: (hesitatingly) I did start right out but when I git to Sherley's corner I seen a whole lot of them w'ite hoodlums hangin' 'round de feed sto'—I jes felt like dey wuz jes waitin' dah to start sumpin, so I dodged 'em by tekin' de long way home. MILLIE: PO' Lonnie! He's allus dodgin' po' w'ite trash! LONNIE: (sullenly) Well, yuh see whut dad got by not dodgin' 'em. MOSEBT: (rising to go) Ah mus' be steppin' long now. Ah got to stop in to see ole man Hawkins; he's mighty sick. Ah'll drap in on mah way back fu' a word o' prayer wid John. MAM SUE: Lonnie, yu'd bettah run erlon' as Brudder Moseby go an' tote dat wash tuh Mis' Ha't. An' drap in Mis' Hawkins' sto' an' git some soap an' starch; an' Ah reckons yu'd bettah bring me a bottle o' linimint—dis ole pain done come back in mah knee, (to MOSEBYJ Good eben, Brudder Moseby. MOSEBT: Good eben, Mam Sue; Good eben, Millie, an' Gawd bles' yuh. LONNIE: (as he is leaving) Tell John I'll git back fo' he leaves.

AFTERMATH (LONNIE and MOSEBY leave, MILLIE closes the door behind them and then goes to the window and looks out anxiously) MILLIE: (musingly) MAM SUEJ Mam Sue?

Po' John! Po' John! (turning to

MAM SUE: Yas, Millie. MILLIE: (hesitatingly) Who's goin' to tell John t>out dad? MAM SUE: (realizing for the first time that the task must Jail to someone) Dunno. Ah reckons yu'd bettah. MILLIE: (going to MAM SUE and kneeling softly at her side) Mam Sue, don' let's tell him now! He's got only a li'l hour to spen' with us—an' it's the firs' time fu' so long! John loved daddy so! Let 'im be happy jes a li'l longer—we kin tell 'im the truth when he comes back fu' good. Please, Mam Sue! MAM SUE: (softened by MILLIE'S pleading) Honey chile, John gwine to be askin' for his daddy fust thing—dey ain't no way— MILLIE: (gaining courage) Oh, yes, 'tis! We kin tell 'im dad's gone to town—anything, jes so's he kin spen' these few lil'l minutes in peace! I'll fix the Bible jes like dad's been in an' been a-readin' in it! He won't know no bettah! (MILLIE takes the Bible from the mantel and opening it at random lays it on the table; she draws the old armchair close to the table as her father had been wont to do every evening when he read his Bible)

MAM SUE: (shaking her head doubtfully) much on actin' dis lie, Millie.

Ah ain't

(The soft afterglow fades and the little cabin is filled with shadows, MILLIE goes again to the window and peers out MAM SUE falls again to her crooning) MAM SUE: (crooning) O, yes, yonder comes mah Lawd, He's comin' dis way Wid his sword in his han'—

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(to MILLIEJ Millie, bettah light de lamp; it's gittin' dark. He's gwine ter hew dem sinners down Right lebbal to de groun' O, yes, yonder comes mah Lawd— (As MILLIE is lighting the lamp, whistling is heard in the distance, MILLIE listens intently, then rushes to the window. The whistling comes nearer; it rings out clear and familiar—"Though the boys are Jar away, they dream of home") MILLIE:

Sue!

(excitedly) That's him! That's John, Mam

(MILLIE rushes out of doors. The voices of JOHN and MILLIE are heard from without in greetings. Presently, JOHN and MILLIE enter the cabin, JOHN is tall and straight—a good soldier and a strong man. He wears the uniform of a private in the American Army. One hand is elapsed in both of MILLIE 'S. In the other, he carries an old fashioned valise. The War Cross is pinned on his breast. On his sleeve three chevrons tell mutely of wounds suffered in the cause of freedom. His brown face is aglow with life and the joy of homecoming)

(eagerly) Where's dad? Where's Mam Sue? MAM SUE: (hobbling painfully to meet him) Heah's ole Mam Sue! (JOHN takes her tenderly in his arms) Bles' yo' heart, chile, bles' yo' heart! Tuh think dat de good Lawd's done lemme live to see dis day! JOHN: Dear old Mam Sue! Gee, but I'm glad to see you an' Millie again! MAM SUE: Didn' Ah say dat yuh wuz comin' back hyeah? JOHN: (smiling) Same old Mam Sue with h u h faith an' huh prayers! But where's dad? (he glances toward the open Bible) He's been in from de field, ain't he? MILLIE: (without lifting her eyes) Yes, he's come in but he had to go out ag'in—to Sherley's feed sto'. JOHN:

AFTERMATH JOHN: (reaching for his cap that he has tossed upon the table) That ain't far. I've jes a few minutes so I'd bettah r u n down there an' hunt him up. Won't he be surprised! MILLIE: (confused) No—no, John—I fu'got; he ain't gone to Sherley's, he's gone to town. JOHN: (disappointed) To town? I hope he'll git in befo' I'm leavin'. There's no tellin' how long they'll keep me at Camp Reed. Where's Lonnie? MAM SUE: Lonnie's done gone to Mis' Ha't's wid de wash. He'll be back to-reckly. MILLIE: (admiring the medal on his breast) An' this is the medal? Tell us all erbout it, John. JOHN: Oh, Sis, it's an awful story—wait 'til I git back fu' good. Let's see whut I've got in dis bag fu' you. (he places the worn valise on the table and opens it He takes out a bright-colored dress pattern) That's fu' you, Millie, and quit wearin' them black clothes. (MILLIE takes the silk and hugs it eagerly to her breast suddenly there sweeps into her mind the realization that she cannot wear it and the silk Jails to the floor) MILLIE: (trying to be brave) Oh, John, it's jes lovely! (as she shows it to MAM SUEJ Look, Mam Sue! JOHN: (flourishing a bright shawl) An' this is fu' Mam Sue. Mam Sue'll be so gay! MAM SUE: (admiring the gift) Who'd evah b'lieved dat yo' ole Mam Sue would live to be wearin' clo'es whut huh gran'chile done brung huh f'om Eu'ope! JOHN: Never you mind, Mam Sue, one of these days I'm goin' to tek you an' Millie over there, so's you kin breathe free jes once befo' yuh die. MAM SUE: It's got tuh be soon, 'cause dis ole body's mos' wo'e out; an' de good Lawd's gwine to be callin' me to pay mah debt 'fo' long. JOHN: (showing some handkerchiefs, with gay borders) These are fu' Lonnie. (he next takes out a tiny

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box that might contain a bit of jewelry) An' this is fu' dad. Sum'pin he's been wantin' fu' years. I ain't goin' to open it 'till he comes. (MILLIE walks into the shadows and furtively wipes a tear from her eyes) JOHN: (taking two army pistols from his bag and placing them on the table) An' these las' are fu' youahs truly. MILLIE: (looking at them, fearfully) Oh, John, are them youahs? JOHN: One of 'em's mine; the other's my Lieutenant's. I've been cleanin' it fu' him. Don' tech 'em— 'cause mine's loaded. MILLIE: (stiff looking at them in fearful wonder) Did they learn yuh how to shoot 'em? JOHN: Yep, an' I kin evah mo' pick 'em off! MILLIE: (reproachfully) Oh, John! JOHN: Nevah you worry, li'l Sis, John's nevah goin' to use 'em less it's right fu' him to. (he places the pistols on the mantel—on the very spot where the Bible has lain) My! but it's good to be home! I've been erway only two years but it seems like two cent'ries. All that life ovah there seems like some awful dream! MAM SUE: (fervently) Ah know it do! Many's de day yo' ole Mam Sue set in dis cheer an' prayed fu' yuh. JOHN: Lots of times, too, in the trenches when I wuz dog-tired, an' sick, an' achin' wid the cold I uster say: well, if we're sufferin' all this for the oppressed, like they tell us, then Mam Sue, an' dad, an Millie come in on that—they'll git some good ou'n it if I don't! An' I'd shet my eyes an' fu'git the cold, an' the pain, an' them old guns spittin' death all 'round us; an' see you folks settin' here by this fire—Mam Sue, noddin', an' singin'; dad a spellin' out his Bible—(he glances toward the open book) Let's see whut he's been readin'—(JOHN takes up the Bible and reads the first passage upon which his eye falls) "But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, an' do good to them that hate you"—(he lets the Bible fall

AFTERMATH

to the table) That ain't the dope they been feedin' us soljers on! "Love your enemies?" It's been—git a good aim at 'em, an' let huh go! MAM SUE: (surprised) Honey, Ah hates to hyeah yuh talkin' lak dat! It sound lak yuh done fu'git yuh Gawd! JOHN: No, Mam Sue, I ain't fu'got God, but I've quit thinkin' that prayers kin do ever'thing. I've seen a whole lot sence I've been erway from here. I've seen some men go into battle with a curse on their lips, and I've seen them same men come back with never a scratch; an' I've seen men whut read their Bibles befo' battle, an' prayed to live, left dead on the field. Yes, Mam Sue, I've seen a heap an' I've done a tall lot o' thinkin' sence I've been erway from here. An' I b'lieve it's jes like this—beyon' a certain point prayers ain't no good! The Lawd does jes so much for you, then it's up to you to do the res' fu' yourse'f. The Lawd's done His part when He's done give me strength an' courage; I got tuh do the res' fu' myse'f! MAM SUE: (shaking her head) Ah don' lak dat kin' o' talk—it don' faode no good! (The door opens and LONNIE enters with packages. He slips the bolt across the door) JOHN: (rushing to LONNIE and seizing his hand) Hello, Lonnie, ole man! LONNIE: Hello, John, Gee, but Ah'm glad tuh see yuh! JOHN: Boy, you should 'ave been with me! It would 'ave taken some of the skeeriness out o' yuh, an' done yuh a worl' o' good. LONNIE: (ignoring JOHN'S remark) Here's the soap an starch, Millie. MAM SUE: Has yuh brung mah linimint? LONNIE: Yassum, it's in de packige. MILLIE: (unwrapping the package) No, it ain't, Lonnie. LONNIE: Mis' Hawkins give it tuh me. Ah mus' a lef it on de counter. Ah'll git it w'en Ah goes to de train wid John.

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MARY BURRILL MILLIE: (showing him the handkerchief) See whut John done brought you! An' look on de mantel! (pointing to the pistols) LONNIE: (drawing back injear as he glances at the pistols) You'd bettah hide them things! No cullud man bettah be seen wid dem things down heah! JOHN: That's all right, Lonnie, nevah you fear. I'm goin' to keep 'em an' I ain't a-goin' to hide 'em either. See them, (pointing to the wound chevrons on his arm) Well, when I got them wounds, I let out all the rabbit-blood 'at wuz in me! (defiantly) Ef I kin be trusted with a gun in France, I kin be trusted with one in South Car'lina. MAM SUE: (sensing trouble) Millie, yu'd bettah fix some suppah fu' John. JOHN: (looking at his watch) I don' want a thing. I've got to be leavin' in a little while. I'm 'fraid I'm goin' to miss dad after all.

(The knob of the door is turned as though someone is trying to enter. Then there is a loud knock on the door) JOHN: (excitedly)

That's dad! Don't tell him I'm here!

tips hurriedly into the adjoining room, LONNIE unbolts the door and MRS. SELENA HAWKINS enters) (JOHN

5. HAWKINS: Lonnie fu'got de liniment so I thought I' bettah run ovah wid hit, 'cause when Mam Sue sen' fu' dis stuff she sho' needs hit. Brudder Moseby's been tellin' me dat John's done come home. JOHN: (coming from his hiding place and trying to conceal his disappointment) Yes, I'm here. Good evenin', Mis' Hawkins. Glad to see you. MRS. HAWKINS: (shaking hands with JOHNJ Well, Ian' sakes alive! Ef it ain't John sho'nuf! An' ain't he lookin' gran'! Jes look at dat medal a-shining' on his coat! Put on yuh cap, boy, an' lemme see how yuh look! JOHN: Sure! (JOHN puts on his overseas cap and, smiling, stands at attention a Jew paces off, while

AFTERMATH MAM SUE, LONNIE,

around

him)

and MILLIE form an admiring

circle

MRS. HAWKINS: Now don' he sholy look gran*! I knows yo' sistah, an' gran'-mammy's proud o' yuh! (a note of sadness creeps into her voice) Ef only yuh po' daddy had a-lived to see dis day! (JOHN looks at her in amazement MILLIE and MAM SUE stand transfixed with terror over the sudden betrayal) JOHN: (looking from one to the other and repeating her words as though he can scarcely realize their meaning) "Ef your po' daddy had lived—" (to MILLIE] Whut does this mean? (MILLIE sinks sobbing into the chair at the table and buries her face in her hands) MRS. HAWKINS:

Lor', Millie, I thought you'd tole him!

(Bewildered by the catastrophe that she has precipitated, MRS. HAWKINS slips out of the cabin) JOHN: (shaking MILLIE almost roughly) Come, Millie, have you been lyin' to me? Is dad gone? MILLIE: (through her sobs) I jes hated to tell you— you wuz so far erway— JOHN: (nervously) Come, Millie, for God's sake don' keep me in this su'pense! I'm a brave soldier—I kin stan' it—did he suffer much? Wuz he sick long? MILLIE: He wuzn't sick no time—them w'ite devuls come in heah an' dragged him— JOHN: (desperately) My God! You mean they lynched dad? MILLIE: (sobbing piteously) They burnt him down by the big gum tree! JOHN: (desperately) Whut fu', Millie? What fu'? MILLIE: He got in a row wid ole Mister Withrow *bout the price of cotton—an' he called dad a liar an' struck him—an' dad he up an' struck him back— JOHN: (brokenly) Didn' they try him? Didn' they give him a chance? Whut'd the Sheriff do? An' the Gov-nur?

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(through her sobs) They didn't do nothin'. JOHN: Oh, God! Oh, God! (then recovering from the first bitter anguish and speaking) So they've come into ouah home, have they! (he strides over to LONNIE and seizes him by the collar) An' whut wuz you doin' when them hounds come in here after dad? LONNIE: (hopelessly) They wuz so many of 'em come an' git 'im—whut could Ah do? JOHN: DO? YOU could 'ave fought 'em like a man! MAM SUE: (pleadingly) Don't be too hard on 'im, John, wese ain't got no gun 'round heah! JOHN: Then he should 'ave burnt their damn kennels ovah their heads! Who was it leadin' em? MILLIE: Old man Withrow and the Sherley boys, they started it all. MILLIE:

(Gradually assuming the look of a man who has determined to do some terrible work that must be done, JOHN walks deliberately toward the mantel where the revolvers are lying) JOHN: (bitterly) I've been helpin' the w'ite man git his freedom, I reckon I'd bettah try now to get my own! MAM SUE: (terrified) Whut yuh gwine ter do? JOHN: (with bitterness growing in his voice) I'm sick o' these w'ite folks doin's—we're "fine, trus'worthy feller citizuns" when they're handin' us out guns, an' Liberty Bonds, an' chuckin' us off to die; but we ain't a damn thing when it comes to handin' us the rights we done fought an' bled fu'l I'm sick o' this sort o' life—an' I'm goin' to put an' end to it! MILLIE: (rushing to the mantel, and covering the revolvers with her hands) Oh, no, no, John! Mam Sue, John's gwine to kill hisse'f! MAM SUE: (piteously) Oh, mah honey, don' yuh go do nothin' to bring sin on yo' soul! Pray to de good Lawd to tek all dis fiery feelin' out'n yo' heart! Wait 'tel Brudder Moseby come back—he's gwine to pray—

AFTERMATH 1 5 1 JOHN: (his speech growing more impassioned and bitter) This ain't no time fu' preachers or prayers! You mean to tell me I mus' let them w'ite devuls send me miles erway to suffer an' be shot up fu' the freedom of people I ain't nevah seen, while they're burnin' an' killin' my folks here at home! To Hell with 'em!

(He pushes MILLIE aside, and seizing the revolvers, thrusts the loaded one into his pocket and begins deliberately to load the other) MILLIE: (throwing her arms about his neck) Oh, John, they'll kill yuh! JOHN: (defiahtly) Whut ef they do! I ain't skeered o' none of 'em! I've faced worse guns than any sneakin' hounds kin show me! To Hell with 'em! (he thrusts the revolver that he has just loaded into LONNIE'S hand) Take this, an' come on here, boy, an' we'll see what Withrow an' his gang have got to say!

(Followed by LONNIE, who is bewildered and speechless, JOHN rushes out of the cabin and disappears in the gathering darkness) (Curtain)

Butterbeans and Susie (Jodie and Susie Edwards)

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Jodie Edwards, born in Marietta, Georgia, either in 1897 or in 1902, by the time he was twelve years old had a job with the Moss Brothers Carnival as a "pick," as they were called in the trade (short for "pickaninny"). These were young black boys and girls who sang and danced with wild abandon; their stereotyped behavior derived from the tradition originating with Topsy in Uncle Tom's Cabin, a tradition that lasted nearly one hundred years down to Buckwheat in the "Our Gang" comedies. On May 15, 1917, as a publicity stunt, Jodie Edwards married Susie Hawthorne on a stage in a Greenville, South Carolina, theater for a fee of fifty dollars. Within a short time, the young couple were offered a chance to replace an act at the Douglass Theatre in Macon, Georgia. Quickly, other members of the company taught them several songs and a few jokes, and the Edwardses scored a hit, the beginning of a team career that carried them through more than thirty years of show business. Although it is uncertain how Jodie took the title of Butterbeans, in the early 1920s, Jodie and Susie did work with a comedian named Butler "Stringbeans" May, who wore tight-fitting pants as a part of his comedy act. When he died in 1929, a theater owner

BUTTERBEANS AND SUSIE

suggested that Jodie become "Stringbeans" May's successor, using the soubriquet "Butterbeans." To appreciate fully Butterbeans and Susie's art, one must go back seventy years to when theater was as popular as the cinema is today. What amused people and made them laugh in those days? Ethnic accents, clothes, and jokes were standard fare, particularly in the lives of Irish and Afro-Americans who shared music, dance, and battles with poverty. The females of both races could gain employment in domestic work, while the males were left unemployed; this led to the image of the domineering woman with a rolling pin who waited for her henpecked male to come home broke, drunk, or late. Maggie and Jiggs were the cartoon grandparents of television's "Honeymooners" in the 1950s, with Ralph shaking his fist at his wife and shouting, 'Tow! To the moon, Alice!" Kingfish and Sapphire of Amos 'n' Andy portrayed the same domestic battles in blackface. In the second decade of the century, comedy and dancing teams had become popular, and what better subject could be found than a black husband and wife in a rough-and-tumble burlesque? Their basic act was a combination of vernacular gags and knockabout eccentric dancing. (One is hard put to find an equivalent pair of fighting marrieds among the upper classes. Money conceals the conjugal mayhem of the rich.) Between duets, Susie sang the blues and cakewalked (a rapid, high-stepping prance popular in the 1890s), while Butterbeans performed his eccentric dance. His trademark was tight pants, and when he kept his hands in his pockets, it looked as if he were "itching to death in syncopated rhythm." This dance, known to the trade as "the itch," became popular as "the Heebie Jeebies." The team worked in segregated shows in the South and Midwest, playing the first half of an evening while the white acts played the second half. The audiences, too, were segregated, Blacks occupying balcony seats in white theaters. Black audiences loved the team. White people sometimes enjoyed but frequently did

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not understand all of the ethnic and in-group humor. The Edwardes toured major cities of the Midwest for the Consolidated Booking Office. Their show titles included "That Gets It," 1922; "Heebie Jeebies," 1927; "Butterbeans and Susie Revue," 1928; "Vanities of 1932"; "Get Lucky," 1935; and "Cotton Club Parade," 1935. Susie died in 1963, and Butterbeans died as he walked onstage at the Dorchester Inn in a Chicago suburb in November 1967. However, their style has been preserved in their recordings, the first in 1922 with Okeh Records, "When My Man Shimmies." Their last album, "Butterbeans and Susie," was in 1962. These are now collectors' items. The skit printed here is taken from one of their records, and the reader should imagine their routine as sung to a kind of bluesy jazz with piano or banjo accompaniment. References Hughes, Langston, and Milton Meltzer. Black Magic. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1967, p. 67. Kellner, Bruce. The Harlem Renaissance. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1984, p. 113. Sampson, Henry T. Blacks in Blackface. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1980, p. 499. Sterns, Marshall, and Jean Sterns. Jazz Dance, the Story of American Dance. New York: Macmillan, 1968, pp. 242-43.

Black Vaudeville Butterbeans and Susie (Song and intro) BEANS: NO. I didn't tell the man that you stole the chickens. SUE: What did you tell him? BEANS: I told the po-lice . . . SUE: Uh huh? BEANS: I told the po-lice . . . SUE: Uh huh? BEANS: I told the po-lice that there were twelve chicken thieves in town . . . including you. That's what I said. SUE: Uh huh . . . There you are. BEANS: No, you just ain't no good and you're a dirty mistreater. That's all. (singing begins) I've tried all my life. SUE: Tried what, Butter? BEANS: Tried to treat you right. SUE: NO, you didn't. BEANS: Give you all of my money, honey, because you is my wife. SUE: Say, listen I've often read it. That we poor women don't get no credit. BEANS: Where's the credit due?

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SUE: All the good things that we try to do. Let me straighten ya out right here. Now, mamma, I really must be a jinx. BOTH: That's all. SUE: Everybody's got a right to think. BEANS: TO think what? SUE: Why, you don't know me Beans. I'm the meanest gal you ever seen. BEANS: IS that so? SUE: Well, I've got a razor and it's a blazer. I'll light you up just like gasoline. BEANS: NOW you hard-hearted beater, you dirty mistreater. Here's what I'm going to do to you. SUE: What are ya going to do, Butter? BEANS: NOW if you don't come home . . . SUE: Sure won't be there. BEANS: . . . by the break of day . . . SUE: What are you going to do? BEANS: I'm going to put something on you, mama, that you didn't carry away. I'm gonna knock knock on your head, that artichoke brain. Also, I'm gonna give you two nice black eyes. When I hit you, mama, you gonna have yourself a fit. I'm gonna turn your nose up so it will rain in it. Now when I hit you, you gonna fall down. You gonna do a funny stunt. I'm gonna hit you so hard, you gonna hear your grandpa grunt. I'm gonna take my razor and cut you round and round. When I git through cuttin' on you Sue, I'm gonna run you clean outta town. 'Cause when I gits mad, I love to fight. You're a dirty mistreater and you ain't treatin' your papa right. BEANS:

(New song begins) SUE: Look here, Beans. BEANS: What is it, Sue? SUE: We've been reckless long enough. BEANS: Ah know.

BLACK VAUDEVILLE 1 5 7

SUE: Look here, Beans. is it Sue? SUE: Papa, you have lost your stuff. BEANS: Susie, Susie, ah sweet Susie, please don't tell me that you are through. SUE: Say listen. Save your grief. It's no use to me. Mr. Beans, I am through. BEANS: IS that so? SUE: Brokedown papa, brokedown papa, your mama can't use you no more. BEANS: Ah know. SUE: Brokedown papa, brokedown papa, the time has come for you to go. You're like a dried up joint that has lost its juice, a watch without a mainspring is out of use. You ain't got nothin' to brag about. You used to be fire, but you've long blown out. BEANS: Brokedown mama, brokedown mama, your egg is all that you can throw. Brokedown mama, brokedown mama, I told you that, yes, long ago. The only thing you can do is raise a chill. You always promise but you can't fulfill. Brokedown mama, papa can't use you no more. SUE: Well, you're too old-timey and you're out to date. BEANS: Well, Sue, you don't look exactly like a fashion plate. SUE: You've only got a wishbone in your back. BEANS: Look here, mama, it's you who should never call the pot black. SUE: Why your eyes are crooked and your mouth is big. BEANS: My money bought your cheek and also bought your wig. SUE: TO me you look like a chimpanzee. BEANS: And Sue, you look just like his sister to me. SUE: Brokedown papa, brokedown papa, your mama can't use you no more. BEANS: Brokedown mama, brokedown mama, you should have been gone long before. BEANS: What

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SUE: Hey listen. You are cold as my grandpa. You have lost your speed. BEANS: And a brand new body is exactly what you need. SUE: Why you look like any boogie-boo. BEANS: I don't see any pictures anywhere of you. SUE: Brokedown papa, brokedown papa, your feet is in the old folks' row. BEANS: Brokedown mama, brokedown mama, you ain't so far behind I know. SUE: You're gonna find another papa in your stall. BEANS: I got a better cigarette across the hall. SUE: Brokedown papa. BEANS: Brokedown mama, your papa can't use you no more.

Willis Richardson (1889-1977) Playwright and editor Willis Richardson was born in Wilmington, North Carolina, to Willis Wilder and Agnes (Harper) Richardson and lived there until the riot of 1898, after which his parents moved to Washington, D.C., where he obtained whatever formal education he had by attending Dunbar High School. Mary Burrill, an aspiring playwright who taught there, encouraged him to write. (According to Richard Bardolph in The Negro Vanguard, the highly trained black teachers at Dunbar were reluctant in those days to associate themselves with Negro colleges.) After graduation in 1910, he continued to educate himself in poetry and drama through correspondence school while working as a clerk in the U.S. Bureau of Printing and Engraving, where he remained until his retirement in 1954. In 1914, he married Mary Ellen Jones, with whom he raised three children, Jean Paula, Antonella, and Noel Justine. Influenced by Angelina Grimke's play Rachel (which he had seen in 1916), Richardson wrote a pioneering essay entitled "The Hope of a Negro Drama" (1919) for the magazine The Crisis, outlining the pitfalls he hoped to avoid and the values he wanted to dramatize in his own plays: "Rachel is . . . a propaganda play, and a great portion of it shows the manner in which 1 5 9

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WILLIS RICHARDSON

negroes are treated by white people in the United States. . . . Still there is another kind of play; the kind that shows the soul of a people; and the soul of this people is truly worth showing." He warmed up to the genre with four dramatic sketches for children published in W. E. B Du Bois's Brownie's Book (19201921). Richardson's first adult one-act play, The Deacon's Awakening, was produced in St. Paul in 1921. It concerns a deacon who is determined to discipline the women voters of his parish until he learns that his own daughter and wife support women's suffrage. About that time, Richardson managed to interest Alain Locke and Montgomery Gregory, the codirectors of the Howard Players, in putting on his plays. When the group was not permitted to perform them by the white president of Howard University (on the grounds that they were propaganda and would prove damaging to the school's reputation), W. E. B. Du Bois encouraged Richardson to try Raymond O'Neil's Ethiopian Art Players. This was the break he needed. In 1923, Richardson gained the national spotlight when The Chip Woman's Fortune was performed by O'Neil's group in Harlem as part of a triple bill and then graduated to Broadway, making him the first black writer to have a nonmusical play produced on The Great White Way. After that, the Howard Players staged his Mortgaged in 1924; in 1925, the same play, staged by the Dunbar Dramatic Club in a drama tournament held in Plainfield, New Jersey, won fourth place. That year, the Karamu House performed Richardson's Compromise. In April 1926, W. E. B. Du Bois, with the assistance of Zora Neale Hurston and others, organized a troupe called the Krigwa Players. The group opened its first season with three plays, two of them by Richardson: Compromise and The Broken Banjo, which won the Spingarn Prize in a competition conducted by The Crisis. Eugene O'Neill, one of the judges in The Crisis awards, commented, "I am glad to hear the judges all agreed on The Broken Banjo and that the play was so successfully staged. Willis Richardson should certainly continue working in his field."

WILLIS RICHARDSON

Richardson was again awarded a prize (one hundred dollars in 1926 for Boot-Black Lover. Shortly afterward, another one-act, Room for Rent, was performed by the Negro Art Players. Richardson edited Plays and Pageants from the Life of the Negro (1930) and coedited Negro History in Thirteen Plays (1935). His Attucks, the Martyr was performed in 1934 in Baltimore by the Morgan College Players. Little was heard from Richardson during the 1940s, except for the performance of Miss or Mrs., a one-act play (not yet published) about a group of busybodies who probe into the marital status of a woman teacher. In 1956, he brought out his third and final collection (all five plays previously published), The King's Dilemma and Other Plays for Children. The typescripts of his unpublished work are in the Hatch-Billops collection. The Chip Woman's Fortune, Richardson's bestknown play, unfolds during Prohibition days in a northern city. It is low-key domestic drama, reflecting the everyday life of ordinary black people during hard times. The protagonist, Aunt Nancy, collects chips of coal off the street so that the poor family she lives with can afford to heat their house. Since he dares to owe money on a Victrola they have just bought, Silas is "furloughed" from his job. His misfortune leads him to suspect that Aunt Nancy has a secret horde of money. It turns out that she has been saving small sums of money for her son, Jim, who has just been released from prison. Between them Jim and Nancy raise enough money to save the Victrola from being repossessed. When the crisis is over and they leave to lead their own lives, the family begins to recognize Nancy's simple dignity and generosity. Despite their straitened circumstances, the behavior of the family is not noticeably different from that of a middle-class white family in the same situation—which may be Richardson's point—except at the end, when all the characters join in a shimmy to jazz played on the retrieved Victrola. But most important, both Silas and Liza and their daughter, Emma, learn a valuable lesson from Nancy and her son—the meaning of grace under pres-

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sure. Ethical behavior and dignity are enduring values in spite of adversity, social class, or color. Mother and son emerge as aristocrats of the spirit. Their integrity is their fortune. Richardson was among the first black playwrights (Randolph Edmonds was another) to recognize that the dramatic form itself, long dominated by the white culture, had to be claimed and transformed to meet the needs of his people. He maintained an awareness of the larger stage tradition both as a measure of what ought to constitute theater and as a genre degrading to Blacks. His plays deliberately countered the traditional depiction of Blacks on the American stage and sought to create works that addressed the true concerns of black audiences. Sadly enough, American theater was not ready for Richardson—he has commented bitterly that it only wanted plays "with prostitutes, dope-handlers, thieves, and criminals"— and his work had little commercial success. Several of his plays remain unpublished as well as unproduced. References Barksdale, Richard K., and Keneth Kinnamon, eds. Black Writers of America: A Comprehensive Anthology. New York: Macmillan, 1972, pp. 638-39. Bond, Frederick W. The Negro and the Drama. College Park, Md.: McGrath, 1969, pp. 166-67. Brawley, Benjamin. The Negro Genius. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1940, pp. 282-84. Hatch, James V., and Ted Shine, eds. Black Theater USA. New York: Free Press, 1974. Hughes, Langston, and Milton Meltzer. Black Magic: A Pictorial History of the Negro in American Entertainment. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1967, pp. 123, 124. Mitchell, Loften. Black Drama. New York: Hawthorne, 1967, pp. 83-84.

WILLIS RICHARDSON

Peterson, Bernard L., Jr. "Willis Richardson." Black World (April 1975): 41-48, 87-88. Silver, Reuben. A History of the Karamu Theatre of Karamu House, 1915-1960. Ph.D. dissertation, Ohio State University, 1961. Microfilm copy of University Microfilms, Ann Arbor, Mich., pp. 126— 27. Turner, Darwin, ed. Black Drama in America: An Anthology. Greenwich, Conn.: Fawcett, 1971. Woodson, Carter G. "Introduction," Negro History in Thirteen Plays, ed. Willis Richardson and May Miller. Washington, D.C.: Associated Publishers, 1935.

163

The Chip Woman's Fortune Willis Richardson THE CAST AUNT NANCY, the chipwoman JIM, her son LIZA, a friend SILAS, her husband EMMA, a girl of eighteen, Liza's

daughter

ACT ONE The scene is the very plain dining room of a poor colored family. The floor is without covering and the walls are without pictures. At the center of thefloor is a rectangular table with a couple of chairs near it. In the rear wall is a fireplace in which a low fire is burning, and at the left of this sits LIZA in a rocker. She is wrapped from shoulders to ankles in blankets, for she is just up from a spell of sickness. At the right of the fireplace is a window. A door at the right leads through to other rooms and to the back yard. Another door at the left leads to thefront of the house. Against the left side near the door stands a Victrola. There is 164

Originally published in Black Drama in America: An Anthology. Ed. Darwin Turner. Greenwich, Conn.: Fawcett, 1971.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE

a deep silence as LIZA sits gazing into the fire. She looks up at the clock on the mantel, then looks toward the right and calls. LIZA:

(calling) Emma! Emma!

(Presently AUNT NANCY appears at the right Every one of us has seen her kind—those old women who go about the streets picking up chips of wood and lumps of coal, or searching in trash cans for whatever they can find. Such is AUNT NANCY. She is old and her back is bent on account of constant stooping. She is wearing a bonnet which partly hides her black, wrinkled face, and is wearing a shawl over her shoulders) callin' Emma, Miss Liza? Aunt Nancy. You seen her? AUNT NANCY: No'm, Ah ain't seen her. LIZA: Wonder where she is? Ah want her to go to the store for me. AUNT NANCY: Ah don't know where she is. Ah ain't seen her for the last two hours, but I reckon she'll drop in in a minute or two. How you feelin' now? LIZA: Ah'm feelin' pretty good. The medicine you give me last night must be doin' me good. AUNT NANCY: Ah don't reckon you need no more medicine today. LIZA: Ah reckon not. How you feelin'? Seems like Ah ought to be askin' you that instead of you askin' me. AUNT NANCY: Ah'm feelin' right sharp for a old woman. To tell you the truth, Ah ain't felt better since the day Ah got married. Ah'm 'spectin' somethin'. LIZA: YOU 'spectin' somethin'? AUNT NANCY: YOU LIZA: Yes'm,

AUNT NANCY:

Yes'm.

LIZA: What

you 'spectin'? Ah can't tell you that, Miss Liza; but maybe you'll find out before the day's gone. LIZA: It is anythin' good? AUNT NANCY: Didn' Ah tell you Ah ain't felt better since the day I got married. AUNT NANCY:

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WILLIS RICHARDSON LIZA: Ah'm glad somethin' good's happenin' to somebody. Ain't nothin' good happenin' to me. AUNT NANCY: YOU gettin' better, ain't you? LIZA: Yes'm. Ah'm gettin' better. AUNT NANCY: That sure is good; and besides, you're young yet; lot o' good things can happen to you before you die. LIZA: Ah hope so. AUNT NANCY: (going close to her) Lemme look in your eyes, (after looking into her eyes) Your eyes is startin' to shine. You'll be gettin' all right pretty soon, (she whispers something in LIZA'S ear) LIZA: (blushing) Oh, no'm. Aunt Nancy! AUNT NANCY: (laughing) That's all right, you wait. Ah likes to see a woman's eyes shinin'. It shows she's got some life in her. Ah don't like to see no woman with dead eyes, 'specially a young woman. Ah likes to see 'em pert. LIZA: YOU ain't by yourself. Everybody likes to see a young woman pert. AUNT NANCY: Ah was goin' in the woods to dig up some roots, but Ah reckon Ah'11 wait 'til tomorrow. LIZA: Tomorrow'll be all right. You don't have to go today. AUNT NANCY: Ah'll go now and set out on the back steps and think. Ah like to set in the sun and think. LIZA: Think about what? AUNT NANCY: Ah got somethin' to think about. LIZA: What? AUNT NANCY: Ah can't tell you everythin'. It ain't good to tell everythin' you think about, you know. 'Spose everybody told all their thoughts? LIZA: That wouldn't never do. AUNT NANCY: 'Deed it wouldn't never do. Everythin' ud be upside down with other people knowin' what you was thinkin' about, (she starts out right) LIZA: If you see Emma out there send her in to me.

1

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE AUNT NANCY: All right, Ah will, (she looks the right door) Here comes Emma now.

through

enters. She is a pretty brown girl of eighteen) ; You want me, Ma? Ah want you. Where you been? EMMA: Upstairs. LIZA: Upstairs doin' what? EMMA: Combin' ma hair. LIZA: Combin' your hair this time o' day? You combed your hair once this mornin'. What you comb it again for? EMMA: Ah wanted it combed. LIZA: You wasn't always so fond o' combin' your hair. What's comin' off? EMMA: Nothin'. LIZA: (looking at her more closely) Come here, gal. fEMMA moves nearer to her) Ah believe before God you been puttin' powder on your face. Is you been puttin' powder on your face? fEMMA looks away without answering) Where'd you get that powder from? EMMA: Ah bought it. LIZA: Bought it with what? (as EMMA is silent) Don't you hear me talkin' to you? Bought it with what? EMMA: Bought it with some change Pa gave me. LIZA: Well, wipe it off! Wipe it right off and don't put no more on! Leave it up there and Ahll use it when Ah get on ma feet. You too young to be powderin'. AUNT NANCY: (who still stands near) Let the gal alone, Liza, You was young like that once and she ain't goin' to be that young but once. LIZA: She don't have to paint herself up like a billboard just because she's young ftoEMMAJ Get the basket, Ah want you to go to the store for me. LIZA: Yes,

k

goes out right)

AUNT NANCY:

want me.

Ah'll be out on the back steps if you

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168

WILLIS RICHARDSON LIZA: All

right'm. Ah hope Ah won't need you.

(AUNT NANCY goes out right and LIZA sits rocking EMMA returns. She speaks just as EMMA comes in)

until

LIZA: There's somethin' mighty funny goin' on round here. You primpin' and Aunt Nancy thinkin'. Ah reckon we goin' to have a thunder storm. EMMA: Ain't nothin' funny goin' on. LIZA: What you doin' plasterin' your face up and combin' your hair if somethin' funny ain't goin' on? You know you ain't never combed your hair twice the same day in your life if it wasn't Sunday. EMMA: (anxious to change the subject) What did you say to get from the store? LIZA: Get some potatoes and chops and some cakes. Some o' the little ones your Pa likes so much. EMMA: IS that all? LIZA: Yes, that's all. Look a here, tell me this. Did Aunt Nancy take you in the woods and show you how to dig them roots yesterday? EMMA: Yes'm, she showed me, but Ah don't remember much. LIZA: Why don't you? You ain't got your mind on no boy, is you? EMMA: No'm. She says she's goin' to show me all over again so Ahll know how to find 'em for you when she's gone. LIZA: Aunt Nancy ain't goin' nowhere. EMMA: Ah hope she won't, but if she does Ahll be sorry. She's so good to me. Ah love her a lot. LIZA: 'Deed she is good. Everybody loves her and they can't help it. Ain't no way in the world to help lovin' somebody that's good to you. EMMA: And Aunt Nancy sure has been good to us. LIZA: Nobody knows that like Ah do. EMMA: (starting out) Ah'm goin' now. LIZA: Wait a minute. Start the Victrola off before you go, and go out the back way, it's nearer.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE

*: (adjusting the needle) When we goin' to get some new records, Ma? LIZA: New records? You better wait 'til the Victrola gets paid for. You got a plenty o' records. EMMA: But they're all old. LIZA: That's all right, you can keep on usin' 'em. You ought to be glad to get bread to eat and let new records alone. (EMMA starts

the machine and goes out right)

Don't stay long. EMMA: (outside the door) No'm, Ah'11 be right back. (LIZA is listening to the Victrola when SILAS, her husband enters from the left He is a man about forty and is wearing the uniform of a store porter. As he enters LIZA looks up at him in surprise) LIZA:

LIZA: Why, Silas, SILAS: (throwing

what you doin' home? his cap down and moving to the table) They sent me home. LIZA: Not discharged? SILAS: (not in the best of spirits) No, Ah ain't discharged, but it's almost as bad; Ah'm furloughed a couple o' days without pay. LIZA: Furloughed for what? SILAS: (motioning toward the Victrola) On account o' that old Victrola. Seems like its bringin' us more trouble than it's worth. LIZA: What's the Victrola got to do with your job? SILAS: It's just like everything else. When a man's got trouble o' one kind seems like everything goes wrong. LIZA: That ain't tellin' me nothin'. SILAS: Well, you know we ain't paid nothin' on that Victrola since the first payment, don't you? LIZA: Yes, Ah know that. But you been promisin'. SILAS: That's the trouble. Ah been doin' a lot o' promisin' and no payin'.

169

170

WILLIS RICHARDSON LIZA: (impatiently) Well, what else? You just as well tell me all of it at once. Ah don't feel like askin' a million questions. SILAS: The man said he was goin' to send here and get the thing if we didn't pay this month, didn't he? LIZA: Yes.

SILAS: Well, you know we ain't been able to pay, so he's goin' to send after it. LIZA: Goin' to take it away? SILAS: Yes.

that's why you got furloughed, is it? 'Cause they goin' to take the Victrola away. SILAS: NO, that ain't it exactly. LIZA: Ah see you ain't told me. What is it exactly? SILAS: The manager o' that music place is a friend o' ma boss; and this mornin' while Ah was sweepin' off the front pavement he passed by me goin' in the store. When he seen me he stopped and looked at me hard, then he went in. Ah thought trouble was comin' when Ah seen him look at me so hard. After he came out the boss called me in and told me they was goin' to send after that Victrola; and then he says, "Go home and stay a few days and maybe you'll learn how to pay your debts." So here Ah am. LIZA: Ah'll be mighty sorry to lose that Victrola; but if it can't be helped, it can't be helped. SILAS: NO, it can't be helped, but that ain't the worst of it. If Ah don't pay and they take it back, when Ah go back the boss'll always have his eyes on me, and Ah bet it won't be long before Ah'll be losin' ma job. LIZA: What you goin' to do? SILAS: Ah'll do anything to save ma job. LIZA: Ah know you'd like to pay and keep the Victrola; but Ah don't see where you goin' to get the fifty dollars from. SILAS: Ah know one thing. LIZA: What? LIZA: SO,

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE SILAS: Aunt Nancy's got to start payin' for her room and board. LIZA: (surprised) Aunt Nancy! SILAS: Yes. We can't keep her around here as high as everything is. LIZA: (earnestly) But look what she done for me. She brought me from flat o' ma back. Ah had one foot in the grave before she come here. And look at me now. Ah'm almost on ma feet. SILAS: Ah can't help it. Aah know she done a whole lot for us, but Ah can't keep things goin' if she don't pay. LIZA: She helps along. She picks up chips and pieces o' coal on the street. That keeps you from havin' to buy 'em. SILAS: Everythin' you sayin' is true, but she's either got to give us some money for stayin' her or she's got to go. LIZA: (greatly concerned) If she goes who's goin' to nurse me? Who's goin' in the woods to get the roots to make ma medicine? SILAS: If that old woman didn't have money, Ah wouldn't say nothin'. LIZA: (not understanding) If she didn't have what? SILAS: If she didn't have money; but Ah know she's got money. LIZA: (angrily) Where in the devil would Anut Nancy get any money from? SILAS: Ain't no use to get mad about it. Ah know what Ah'm sayin'. LIZA: HOW do you know she's got money? SILAS: Ah know because Ah been watchin' her the last week or so. LIZA: YOU been watchin' her, is you? Well, what did you find out? SILAS: Ah found out that people passin' in the street give her money every day.

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172

WILLIS RICHARDSON LIZA: YOU ain't talkin' about a cent or two anybody might give a poor old woman, is you? SILAS: No, every day Ah see people givin' her dimes and nickels and quarters. And it ain't no longer than yesterday that Ah seen two rich lookin' men givin' her greenbacks. LIZA: Ah ain't never seen her with no money. SILAS: Ah know you ain't. She hides it. LIZA: Hides it where? SILAS: In the back yard. I know the very place. LIZA: Did you see her hide it there? SILAS: NO, Ah didn't see her hide it there, but every time I go out there by that spot she comes right behind me. LIZA: Ah hope you ain't mean enough to try to take her money. Ah mean if she's got any. SILAS: NO, Ah ain't been tryin' to take it. Ah just wanted to see what she had there. Ah tried it time and time again, and every time I went close to that spot she come right up. LIZA: Why didn't you wait 'til she went away? SILAS: I done that twice; but every time Ah went out there she come right back just like somethin' drawed her back. Once Ah went out there with a spade and up she comes and stands right on the spot. Ah told her Ah wanted to dig a hole for a post and she said, "Please don't dig it right here, Mr. Silas; Ah got somethin' planted here." You know if somebody has anything planted, they wouldn't go and stand right on the spot. LIZA: (after a moment's thought) Well, whether she's got money or not, Ah don't think you ought to put her out after what she's done for us. SILAS: That's the only way I know we can get by. LIZA: That won't make it the right thing to do. A lot o' people get by by doin' the wrong thing. Ah know Emma won't like it. SILAS: It's got to happen just the same if she don't hand out some money. Where's Emma?

1

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE

She went after somethin' for dinner. SILAS: When she come in, tell her what Ah said. 'Course the old woman might get open-hearted and let us have fifty dollars or so; then we won't have no trouble at all and Ah can go back to work tomorrow. LIZA: Maybe she'll let us have that much if she's got it, but Ah don't believe she's got that much. SILAS: (determined) Somethin's got to be done, (as he start out) Ah reckon Ah better change these clothes so they'll be clean when Ah do go back. LIZA:

(He goes out leaving LIZA gazing into the fire. Presently EMMA returns with the basket on her arm) LIZA: Ah

got a lot o' sad news for you, Emma. EMMA: (a little frightened at her mother's tone, rests the basket on the table and gazes at her) What's the matter? Anythin' bad happened? LIZA: They goin' to take the Victrola away. EMMA: The Victrola! Who's goin' to take it away? LIZA: The men from the store's comin' 'cause we ain't been makin' no payments. EMMA: Does Pa know about it? LIZA: Yes, he's the one told me. EMMA: He been here? LIZA: He's here now. They sent him home from work because we ain't been makin' no payments. EMMA: (fearfully) He ain't been discharged, is he? LIZA: He ain't been discharged, but he's furloughed and that's just as bad. EMMA: YOU mean they goin' to let him go back? LIZA: Yes, they'd let him go back today if he could make a good payment on that Victrola; but he reckons he'll have to stay out two or three days as it is. EMMA: Ah'm mighty sorry they put him off, and Ah'm mighty sorry we can't keep that Victrola. Hearin' that thing was about the only pleasure Ah had. LIZA: That ain't the worst yet. EMMA: What, somethin' more? What else is it?

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174

WILLIS RICHARDSON LIZA: Your Pa says if Aunt Nancy don't pay some money for stayin' here she's got to go. EMMA: Where's Aunt Nancy goin' to get any money from? LIZA: He says he's been seein' people give her money almost every day, and she's got it buried in the back yard. EMMA: If she's got money any at all, it's just a few cents; but Ah don't believe she's got none. SILAS: (entering just in time to hear what EMMA says. He is now wearing overalls) Yes, she is got money, too; and she'll either have to pay some or get out. EMMA: (turning on him) Ah don't see nothin' fair in that. She picks up chips, she brings home wood and coal, and she nurses Ma. What more do you want? SILAS: (sitting at the right of the table) If she'll give me a few dollars or let me borrow a few dollars, maybe Ah can go back to ma job tomorrow. EMMA: If you put her out, Ah believe Ma'll go right back to bed 'cause there won't be nobody that'll know what to do for her. So Ah don't see nothin' you'll gain by puttin' her out. SILAS: If she'll let us have the money— EMMA: If she's got any money it's just a little she's savin' for her son. SILAS: (surprised) Her son! Ah didn't know she had no son. EMMA: Yes, seh, she's got a son. SILAS: Where's he? Ah ain't heard nothin' about him. EMMA: He's been in the pen a long time, but Ah reckon he's out now. SILAS: In the pen? EMMA: Yes, SILAS:

him?

seh.

(still puzzled)

And she's savin' money for

EMMA: Ah reckon that's what she's savin' it for if she's got any.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE SILAS: (in disgust) Well, for God's sake! Savin' money for a jailbird! BMMA: She says she wants him to have a few cents to keep him 'til he can get a job. SILAS: Did she tell you all this? EMMA: Yes, seh. Ah wrote a letter for her the other day. SILAS: (turning to LIZA) Did you know anything about this, Liza? LIZA: NO, this is the first time AhVe heard a word about it. SILAS: Why didn't you say somethin' about it? EMMA: YOU always told me to tend to ma own business. Ah didn't want to be tellin' her business around. SILAS: It's all right to tend to your business, but it ain't all right to keep secrets from your parents when it concerns 'em. You say her son's out now. EMMA: He was to be out yesterday. She's lookin' for him to come here today. SILAS: What was he sent up for? EMMA: Ah don't know, seh; somethin' about a woman, Ah believe. SILAS: And he means to come here, does he? EMMA: Yes,

seh.

hear that, Liza? Yes, and Ah ain't particular about havin' no jailbird comin' here neither. SILAS: Ah reckon Ah just as well talk to her now as any other time. Was she out there when you come in, Emma? EMMA: Yes, seh, she was sittin' out on the back staps; but she got up when Ah came in and started off. SILAS: Well, go tell her to come in here a minute. EMMA: (as she goes out) Ah'll have to catch her 'cause Ah reckon she's gone. SILAS: J u s t go out there and stand by that middle clothes prop and she'll come right in sight. Ah've already tried it a lot o' times myself. SILAS: YOU

LIZA:

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WILLIS RICHARDSON (EMMA

goes out)

SILAS: Liza, Ah want you to understand Ah'm not actin' this way 'cause Ah mean to be hardhearted. AhVe just got to get out of this trouble. LIZA: (discouraged) Ah'm sorry everything turned out like this, cause I reckon Ahll have to go back to bed if she goes. SILAS: (concerned) Don't say that. The Lord couldn't be that hard on us. LIZA: Ah hope you're right; goodness knows Ah do. SILAS: If Ah can get her to do us this favor before the men come after that Victrola, everythingll be all right. (there is a pause while they ponder over their situation) And even if she will agree to help us, Ah'm tired o' this kind o' life. Ah'm sick o' livin' from hand to mouth. LIZA: Ah reckon we ought to be thankful to be livin' any kind o' way with all the trouble we had. Some people get along better'n we do, but a whole lot o' others don't get along as good. Ah only got one consolation besides believin' in the Lord. SILAS: What's that? LIZA: That things ain't always been like this, and they might not always be like this. SILAS: Ah hope not. (after he listens) Here they come. LIZA: NOW don't be hard on her, Silas. You know she's been mighty good to us. SILAS: I ain't goin' to be hard on her. Ah'm goin' to be as fair as Ah can. (EMMA enters

followed by AUNT NANCY,/

AUNT NANCY: (moving to the table and SILASJ You want to see me, seh? SILAS: (kindly) Yes'm, Aunt Nancy, Ah

speaking

to

want to talk to you. Get 'a chair so she can sit down, Emma.

(AUNT NANCY looks around for a chair; EMMA brings her one and she sits above the table)

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE SILAS: The first thing Ah want to do, Aunt Nancy, is to thank you for all the good things you done for us. And then Ah want to tell you that we're in trouble. AUNT NANCY: YOU all in trouble, Mister Silas? SILAS: Yes'm. The menll be here today after the Victrola, and Ah'm put off from work a few days 'cause Ah didn't pay for it. AUNT NANCY: Ah'm mighty sorry for that. SILAS: And you know you been stayin' here with us for six months or more and we ain't been chargin' you a thing. AUNT NANCY: NO, and Ah wouldn't a been able to pay you nothin' no how. SILAS: NOW Ah'm askin' if you'll pay us for stayin' or let us borrow a few dollars from you? AUNT NANCY: (with a long face) 'Deed the Lord knows Ah can't pay you nothin', Mister Silas. Ah ain't got nothin' for myself. SILAS: But we know you got money hid out there in the back yard. AUNT NANCY: Ah got a little money out there, but that ain't for me; that's for ma child. SILAS: [feigning surprise) You didn't tell us you had no child. AUNT NANCY: Ah reckon you'd call him a man, but Ah call him ma child. He's grown. SILAS: Where is he? AUNT NANCY: Ah reckon he's on his way here now. SILAS: (still pretending ignorance) Ah don't see what a old woman like you wants to be savin' money for a grown man for. He ought to be workin' and takin' care o' you. Ain't he workin'? AUNT NANCY: He's been locked up. SILAS: In jail? AUNT NANCY: In the

pen.

That's so much the worse. You oughtn't to be savin' money to give to a jailbird. SILAS:

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WILLIS RICHARDSON AUNT NANCY: (offended) He ain't no jailbird, Mister Silas; don't call him that. He's ma son. SILAS: He ought to be shamed of hisself for not workin' and takin' care o' you. AUNT NANCY: That used to be the way when Ah was comin' up. When children used to get grown they used to take care o' the old folks, but now it's different. The old folks has to take care o' the children. SILAS: Ah wouldn't never look out for no grown man. AUNT NANCY: Ah reckon you wouldn'. Fathers wasn't never like mothers and never will be. SILAS: And 'specially if he went to the pen. AUNT NANCY: Goin' to the pen ain't nothin'. Some o' the best men in the world's been to the pen. It ain't the goin' to the pen that counts, it's what you go there for. Once it used to be a big disgrace to be locked up; but the people in them days forgot that the Lord was locked up. No, seh, it ain't the bein' locked up, it's what you locked up for. If the Lord had a got locked up for stealin' somethin' or killin' somebody do you think people would be praisin' him like they do? SILAS: I know they wouldn't; but what did your son get locked up for? AUNT NANCY: He got locked up about a woman, but he done what any other man might a done. He was goin' with a woman what he thought was clean, but she was crooked. He run up on her one night when another man was handlin' her kind o' rough and beat the man up—he beat the man up bad. Then he found out the woman was crooked and he lost his head and beat her up too. That's the worse part of it. SILAS: (doubtfully) And they sent him to the pen for that? Just for that? AUNT NANCY: Yes, seh. The man he beat up was one o' these big fellows what went to church every Sunday, and looked so clean and nice in his biled shirts and white collars and fine clothes all through the week days, but in the night he trailed in the gutter. He used his pull and put up a job on Jim that sent him to the pen.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE SILAS: Ah don't mean to hurt your feelin's, Aunt Nancy, but your boy can't be much if he beat a woman up. LIZA: 'Deed he can't. AUNT NANCY: (hanging her head) That's the worse part of it. Ah didn't mind him beatin' the man, but Ah never did care much for a man that ud hit a woman— no man but ma own son. (looking him in the eyes) And you know a mother can't help that. SILAS: Ah always did think some mothers was too kindhearted. AUNT NANCY: NO, they ain't. Mothers ain't half as kindhearted as God is. If God was hard as some people is, everybody in this world would be farin' mighty bad. You know there ain't no man perfect, and no woman neither. SILAS: I reckon you might be right about that, but the main reason I sent for you was to ask you if you wouldn't let us have a little money. If you can't do it we'll be in a hole sure enough. AUNT NANCY: Ah wish Ah could. Ah'd be willin' to do anything in the world for you, but he comes first, you know. SILAS: DO you reckon he'll let us have it? AUNT NANCY: Ah don't know; he's mighty kindhearted. He's takin' a mighty long time to come here too.

(At this time, there is a loud knocking on the outside door) AUNT NANCY:

(starting to rise) Ah reckon that's him

now. LIZA: (EMMA

Don't get up, Aunt Nancy; Emma'll let him in.

goes out)

SILAS: (to AUNT NANCYJ Why don't you take your bonnet off? You don't want to look like you ain't home. AUNT NANCY: Never mind. Ah'll keep it on. We won't be here long, Ah reckon.

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WILLIS RICHARDSON SILAS: (SILAS

(returning) It's the men after the Victrola.

hastens out left)

AUNT NANCY: (sighing) Oh, Lord. Ah thought that was Jim. Ah wonder why he don't come? LIZA: Don't worry, Aunt Nancy, it ain't late. EMMA: Ah reckon he might be lookin' for the place. AUNT NANCY: But you put this number in the letter, didn' you? EMMA: Yes'm, Ah put it in. SILAS: (returning) Ah don't know why Ah done it, but Ah told 'em to wait a few minutes.

(He sits again) AUNT NANCY: Ah

minutes.

don't know. Jim might come in a few

(There is another knock on the door) SILAS:

(rising) Ah wonder what they want now?

(He goes out again) That might be Jim. Ah hope it is.

AUNT NANCY: LIZA:

(SILAS returns followed by JIM. When AUNT NANCY sees him she flies toward him. JIM opens his arms and draws her to him) AUNT NANCY: (holding him off and looking at him) It is you, sure enough? Jim, is it you? JIM: (smiling) Yes'm, it's me. AUNT NANCY: Come over here.

(She draws him over to the table and we have an opportunity to get a good view of him. He is about thirty, standing over six feet in height and large in proportion. He is wearing a blue shirt with collar attached and a blue suit) AUNT NANCY: These is the people Ah been stayin' with all the winter, Jim. (she names each one in her way of introduction) This is Mr. Silas.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE

JIM: (smiling as they shake hands) Glad to meet you, Mr. Silas. AUNT NANCY: This is Miss Liza. JIM: (bowing to LIZAJ Glad to meet you, Miss Liza. AUNT NANCY: And this is Emma. (JIM and EMMA bow and smile at each other) These people been mighty good to me, Jim. JIM: (speaking to all of them) Ah'm glad to hear that and Ah thank you all for it. LIZA: We ain't been half as good to her as she's been to us. EMMA: Indeed we ain't. AUNT NANCY: Ah ain't done nothin' that no good woman wouldn't a done. J i m knows me. JIM: Ah know her well, too. AUNT NANCY: (to JIMJ What made you take so long to get here? JIM: Well, Ah hung around a little while— AUNT NANCY: NOW, Jim, you ain't got no business hangin' 'round when Ah'm waitin' for you. JIM: And even when Ah got here Ah wasn't sure this was the right place 'cause Ah seen two men hangin' 'round on the outside and they looked kinder like bootleggers. SILAS: Them's the men that come to take the Victrola away. JIM: (turning to AUNT NANCYj YOU say these people been good to you, Ma? AUNT NANCY: Yes, they been mighty good to me. JIM: (reaching into his pocket) Ah got fifteen dollars. You can have that if it'll do you any good, (he gives it to SILASJ SILAS: (taking the money) Thanks for that. Maybe some o' these days—

(The two men who have been waiting outside enter) FIRST MAN: Ah'm sorry, but we can't wait all day; we got to get back to the store.

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WILLIS RICHARDSON

JIM: (to SILAS) How much do you owe on it? SILAS: Fifty dollars. JIM: Fifteen dollars won't do much good then, will it? SILAS: Well, it'll help. Ah been tryin' to borrow it from your Ma. SECOND MAN: (roughly) Come on, Dan, let's take it; they ain't got nothin'. SILAS: (as they take hold of the Victrola) Wait a minute! JIM: (turning to his mother) You got any money, Ma? AUNT NANCY: Ah got a little Ah been savin' for you. JIM: HOW much? AUNT NANCY: (who is not very good at figures) Ah don't know, but Ah reckon it's enough. Ah'll get it. (she goes out right) SECOND MAN: (impatiently) Come on, Dan; this is all a bluff.

(They move the Victrola toward the door) JIM: (getting in the doorway) There ain't nobody or nothin' goin' out o' here 'til she comes back! (JIM is such a large man and so nearly Jills the doorway that the two men stop and reconsider their plan. They decide to wait) JIM: Ah don't mean no harm to nobody and Ah wouldn't hurt a hair in nobody's head; but when Ah say wait, Ah mean wait. FIRST MAN: But you see, mister, we been waitin' a long time already. JIM: Well, you won't have to wait much longer. She'll be back in a minute. (AUNT NANCY returns with a rather dirty box which she puts on the table and opens. All gaze into it) AUNT NANCY: (pouring the contents of the box on the table) This is yours, Jim. Ah been savin' it for you ever since you went away.

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE

JIM: (staring at the money) All this for me? AUNT NANCY: Yes, and you can do anything you want to do with it. JIM: (pushing half of the money to SILASJ Here, take this; maybe it'll be enough. (Judging from the expression on AUNT NANCY'S face JIM is giving away too much) SILAS: (drawing the money to him) 'Deed it will be enough, (after counting the money he hands part of it to one of the men) Here's your fifty dollars. (The first man takes the money and with the aid of the second man pushes the Victrola back to its place. Having done this they start out) JIM: (to SILASJ You better get a receipt for that. SILAS: (to the men) Hey, wait a minute, (the men stop) Gimme a receipt for that money, (the first man writes him a receipt and then they go out) That's better, (after indicating the money left on the table) Ah reckon you better take the rest of it back, Jim. JIM: NO, you keep it. You all been good to Ma, and ain't nothin' Ah got too good for you. LIZA: She done a whole lot more for us than we could ever do for her. AUNT NANCY: Ah'd a give you that money before, Mr. Silas, but Ah was savin' it for Jim, and Ah just didn't have the heart to give it away. SILAS: That's all right, Auntie; Ah 'preciated it just as much as if you had give it to me when Ah first ask you. AUNT NANCY: (taking up her basket) Well, Jim, Ah reckon we better be goin'. LIZA: (quickly in surprise) Goin'! Where you goin'? AUNT NANCY: Goin' to get a place to stay. JIM: Then Ah'm goin' to look for a job. LIZA: But Ah' thought you was goin' to stay here with us.

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WILLIS RICHARDSON AUNT NANCY: YOU

chile.

ain't got no room for both of us,

SILAS: (shifting the chairs around) Yes'm, we is. Well make room. JIM: NO, seh, Ah don't want you to cramp yourself on ma account. It won't take us long to find another place. LIZA: But how'll Ah get along, Aunt Nancy, with you gone? AUNT NANCY: Ah won't be far away. Ah'll come in and look after you every day. LIZA: Ah'm mighty sorry you goin'; and Ah want to thank you for what you done for us. AUNT NANCY: (as she and JIM stand near the door) Maybe we'll ask you all to do us a favor sometime. SILAS: And we'll be mighty glad to do it. AUNT NANCY: Well, good day 'til tomorrow. SILAS, LIZA, AND EMMAS G o o d day.

JIM: Good day to all of you. SILAS, LIZA, AND EMMAS G o o d day. (AUNT NANCY and

JIM go

out)

Ah'm sorry she's gone. LIZA: YOU must be mighty sorry he's gone too by the way you looked at him. SILAS: 'Deed she must be. She looked at him like her life depended on it. LIZA: TO tell the truth, Ah'm mighty sorry she's gone too. She's sure goin' to be a loss to me. SILAS: But she says she's goin' to come around every day to look after you. LIZA: Yes, but that ain't like stayin' here. SILAS: Well, there ain't nothin' Ah can do. EMMA: Ah reckon you're mighty glad you didn't put her out. SILAS: Ah am, Ah'm mighty glad. LIZA: She got us out o' trouble, all right. EMMAS

THE CHIP WOMAN'S FORTUNE EMMA: Indeed SILAS: Ah got

she did. to go and get ma work clothes on and go and see about ma job. LIZA: She saved your job too, Ah'm thinkin'. SILAS: YOU bet your life she did. (Curtain)

185

Zora Neale Hurston (1901-1960)

186

Zora Neale Hurston, along with Langston Hughes and Sterling Brown, spearheaded the movement to translate and adapt the Afro-American oral tradition into received forms of literature. Through the ingenious use of blues, folklore, street language, toasts, jive, "signifying," and the dozens, these writers helped to give the Harlem Renaissance its distinctive shape and tonality. Recent scholarship has recognized Hurston's contribution as central. Hurston was born on January 7, 1901, in Eatonville, Florida, and received her early education there and in Jacksonville. After attending Morgan Academy in Baltimore, she enrolled in Howard University. A scholarship helped her to transfer to Barnard College in New York, where she earned her B.A. in 1928. Though she had to work as a maid and manicurist to support herself, she found time to write short plays. After college, she became secretary to novelist Fanny Hurst, who encouraged her aspirations to write. Awarded a Rosenwald Fellowship and a grant from Mrs. R. Osgood Mason, she studied anthropology and folklore at Columbia University with Dr. Franz Boas for the next four years. From 1936 to 1938, on a Guggenheim grant, she traveled and studied and lived in Haiti and the British West Indies. In 1932, she pro-

ZORA NEALE HURSTON

duced a program of Negro spirituals and work songs at the John Golden Theatre in New York, and in 1934, she took her troupe to the National Folklore Festival in St. Louis. Her restless spirit and creative drive took her from one career direction to another. She wrote film scripts for Hollywood studios (thus far, no one has discovered them) and for a while settled into a post at the Library of Congress in Washington. This was followed by a brief tenure as head of the drama department at North Carolina College for Negroes. Hurston began writing in high school and published her first short story in Stylus, the literary magazine at Barnard. Her story "Spunk" won the first prize in the literary contest held by Opportunity in 1925. Raised in the southern Christian tradition, she submitted in 1926 her first attempt to dramatize biblical stories, The First One (with its clever play on the meaning of first) to a contest conducted by Opportunity, the journal of the National Urban League edited by Charles Johnson. It appeared the following year in the famed anthology of Harlem Renaissance writing, Ebony and Topaz (1927), Johnson's farewell effort on behalf of the National Urban League to encourage and to display the literary and intellectual talent of Black Americans (a facsimile edition was issued in 1971). Not long afterward, Hurston collaborated with Langston Hughes on a play called Mule Bone, the cause of a somewhat mysterious controversy between them. When Hurston turned to writing fiction seriously, her stories began to appear in various current magazines, and in 1943, she won the Annisfield Award of one thousand dollars for her autobiography, Dust Tracks on the Road. Though her highly regarded work on folklore (Tell My Horse, The Sanctified Church, and Mules and Men) deeply influenced such writers as Alice Walker and Michele Wallace, most critics agree that the novel Their Eyes Were Watching God stands as her greatest achievement. Robert Stepto, in From Behind the Veil (1979), calls it "a seminal narrative in Afro-American letters." Hurston's personal life had become hectic. She had

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ZORA NEALE HURSTON

bad luck with husbands. She didn't get along with her family and couldn't adjust to the routine of her teaching job. Her response to "worriation" was to embark on another folklore hunting trip; consequently, financial and professional security eluded her all her life. She dropped out of sight until the 1950s, when she reappeared in Florida, working as a maid in Riva Alto. Before suffering a crippling stroke, she was writing a novel based on biblical history, The Life of Herod the Great In 1959, she entered the St. Lucie county home and the following year died penniless in a Fort Pierce hospital of a "hypertensive heart disease." She was buried in the Garden of the Heavenly Rest, the city's segregated cemetery, her funeral expenses paid by collection and contribution. Some years later, Alice Walker installed a granite stone on her grave, reading "Zora Neale Hurston, 'A Genius of the South,' 19011960, Novelist, Folklorist, Anthropologist" (see Walker's essay, "Looking for Zora"), and Laurence Holder wrote a prize-winning play about her life called Zora. As Robert Hemenway points out in Zora Neale Hurston: A Literary Biography (University of Illinois Press, 1977), The First One illustrates "the folkloric process by which Judeo-Christian tradition was Afro-Americanized, the manner by which the gods were made human" (though strictly speaking Noah is not a god). The legend of Ham, the "first" black man, is dramatized in supple modern prose with a faint echo of biblical rhythms, a cpmic response to that despairing query, "Why am I black?" The action begins in the Valley of Ararat as Noah's family is about to thank God for preserving them three years after the flood. Instead of bringing a material offering to Jehovah as his brothers have done, Ham chooses to embody the creative gifts of joy and abandon. Responsive to this spirit, the patriarch Noah drinks too much, and during his drunkenness allows Shem and Japeth's wives to trick him into putting a curse on Ham and depriving him of his birthright. In a fury, Noah denounces them when he becomes sober again, but he cannot recall—or, worse—undo the deed. Noah drives the innocent Ham

ZORA NEALE HURSTON

out of the new Eden as Adam was driven out of Paradise by God. At the conclusion, wiser than the first Eve, the black woman is showing the black man how to turn injustice into triumph. Since black people were allegedly descendants of Ham, Hurston could portray Ham as one who has rhythm and thereby suggest that the play can be viewed as a comedy about his curse and exile. As Hemenway says, the play pokes funs at those who take seriously the biblical sanction for racial separation. It also disclosed to Hurston, he thinks, "the possibilities of presenting a black version of the Old Testament, a revelation that would reach fruition" in her novel about a biblical patriarch as a hoodoo, Moses, Man of the Mountain (1939). The First One is unquestionably an interesting forerunner of Marc Connelly's commerical success Green Pastures five years later. References Gloster, Hugh. "Zora Neale Hurston: Novelist and Folklorist." Phylon 3 (Second Quarter 1943): 153-56. Hemenway, Robert E. Zora Neal Hurston. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1985. Hughes, Langston. The Big Sea. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1940. Hurst, Fannie. "Zora Hurston: A Personality Sketch." Yale University Library Gazette, Vol. XXXV, 1961, 18. Killens, John Oliver. "Another Time When Black Was Beautiful." Black World 20 (November 1970): 2 0 36. Neal, Larry. "Eatonville's Zora Neale Hurston: A Profile." Mel Watkins, Black Review #2. New York: William Morrow & Company, 1972. "Obituary." Wilson Library Journal 34 (April 1960): 552.

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Sato, Hiroko. "Zora Neale Hurston Shiron." Oberon (Tokyo) 34: 30-37. Taylor, Clyde. "Black Folk Spirit and the Shape of Black Literature." Black World 21 (August 1972): 311-40. Turner, Darwin T. In a Minor Chord: Three AfroAmerican Writers and Their Search Jor Identity. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1971, pp. 89-120. Washington, Mary Helen. "Zora Neale Hurston: The Black Woman's Search for Identity." Black World 21 (August 1972): 68-75. "Zora Neale Hurston." Current Biography 21 (April 1960): 26.

The First One A PLAY IN ONE ACT

Zora Neale Hurston Time: Three years after the Flood Place: Valley of Ararat [in historic Armenia]. Persons: Noah, his wife, their sons: Shem, Japheth, Ham; Eve, Ham's wife; the sons' wives and children (6 or 7). Morning in the Valley of Ararat. The Mountain is in the near distance. Its lower slopes grassy with grazing herds. The very blue sky beyond that These togetherform the background. On the left downstage is a brown tent. A Jew shrubs are scattered here and there over the stage indicating the temporary camp. A rude altar is built center stage. A shepherd's crook, a goat skin water bottle, a staff and other evidences of nomadic life lie about the entrance to the tent. To the right stretches a plain clad with bright flowers. Several sheep or goat skins are spread about on the ground upon which the people kneel or sit whenever necessary. (Curtain rises on an empty stage. It is dawn. A great stillness, but immediately NOAH enters from the tent and ties back the flap. He is clad in loose fitting Originally published in Ebony and Topaz by Opportunity magazine, 1927.

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ZORA NEALE HURSTON

dingy robe tied about the waist with a strip of goat hide. Stooped shoulders, flowing beard. He gazes about him. His gaze takes in the entire stage) NOAH: (fervently) Thou hast restored the Earth, Jehovah, it is good, (turns to the tent) My sons! Come, deck the altar for the sacrifices to Jehovah. It is the third year of our coming to this valley to give thanks offering to Jehovah that he spared us. (Enter JAPHETH bearing a haunch of meat and SHEM with another. The wife of NOAH and those of SHEM and JAPHETH follow laying on sheaves of grain and fruit dates and figs. They are all middle-aged and clad in dingy garments) NOAH: And where is Ham—son of my old age? Why does he not come with his wife and son to the sacrifice? MRS. NOAH: He arose before the light and went, (she shades her eyes with one hand and points toward the plain with the other) His wife, as ever, went with him. SHEM: (impatiently) This is the third year that we have come here to this Valley to commemorate our delivery from the flood. Ham knows the sacrifice is made always at sunrise. See! (he points to rising sun) He should be here. NOAH: (lifts his hand in a gesture of reproval) We shall wait. The sweet singer, the child of my loins after old age had come upon me, is warm to my heart—let us wait. (There is offstage, right, the twanging of a rude stringed instrument and laughter, HAM, his wife and son come dancing on downstage right. He is in his early twenties. He is dressed in a very white goat skin with a wreath of shiny green leaves about his head. He has the rude instrument in his hands and strikes it. His wife is clad in a short blue garment with a girdle of shells. She has a wreath of scarlet flowers about her head. She has black hair, is small,

THE FIRST ONE

young and lithe. She wears anklets and wristlets of the same red/lowers. Their son about three years old wears nothing but a broad band of leaves and flowers about his middle. They caper and prance to the altar, HAM'S wife and son bear flowers. A bird is perched on HAM'S shoulder. NOAH: (extends his arms in greeting) My son, thou art late. But the sunlight comes with thee. (HAM gives

bird to MRS. NOAH, then embraces NOAHJ

HAM: (rests his head for a moment on NOAH'S shoulder) We arose early and went out on the plain to make ready for the burnt offering before Jehovah. MRS. SHEM: (tersely) But you bring nothing. HAM: See thou! We bring flowers and music to offer up. I shall dance before Jehovah and sing joyfully upon the harp that I made of the thews of rams, (he proudly displays the instrument and strums once or twice) MRS. SHEM: (clapping her hands to her ears) Oh, Peace! Have we not enough of thy bawling and prancing all during the year? Shem and Japheth work always in the fields and vineyards, while you do naught but tend the flock and sing! MRS. JAPHETH: (looks contemptously at both HAM and NOAHJ Still, thou art beloved of thy father . . . he gives thee all his vineyards for thy singing, but Japheth must work hard for his fields. MRS. SHEM: And Shem— NOAH: (angrily) Peace! Peace! Are lust and strife again loose upon the Earth? Jehovah might have destroyed us all. Am I not Lord of the world? May I not bestow where I will? Besides, the world is great. Did I not give food, and plenty to the thousands upon thousands that the waters licked up? Surely there is abundance for us and our seed forever. Peace! Let us to the sacrifice, (NOAH goes to the heaped up altar, HAM exits to the tent hurriedly and returns with a torch and hands it to NOAH who applies it to the altar. He kneels at the altar and the others kneel in a semi-circle

193

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ZORA NEALE HURSTON

behind him at a little distance, NOAH makes certain ritualistic gestures and chants) O Mighty Jehovah, who created the Heaven and the firmaments thereof, the Sun and Moon, the stars, the Earth and all else besides— OTHERS:

I am here I am here, O, Jehovah I am here This is thy Kingdom, and I am here. fa deep silence Jails for a moment) NOAH: Jehovah, who saw evil in the hearts of men, who opened upon them the windows of Heaven and loosed the rain upon them—And the fountains of the great deep were broken up— OTHERS (repeat chant) NOAH: Jehovah who dried

up the floods and drove the waters of the sea again to the deeps—who met Noah in the Vale of Ararat and made covenant with Noah, His servant, that no more would he smite the Earth—And Seed time and Harvest, Cold and Heat, Summer and Winter, day and night shall not cease forever, and set His rainbow as a sign. NOAH AND OTHERS:

We are here O Jehovah We are here We are here This is Thy Kingdom And we are here. (NOAH arises, makes obeisance to the smoking altar, then turns and blesses the others) NOAH: Noah alone, whom the Lord found worthy; Noah whom He made lord of the Earth, blesses you and your seed forever, (at a gesture from him all arise. The women take the meat from the altar and carry it into the tent) Eat, drink and make a joyful noise before Him. For He destroyed the Earth, but spared us. (women reenter with bits of roast meat— all take some and eat. All are seated on the skins)

THE FIRST ONE MRS. NOAH: (feelingly) Yes, three years ago, all was water, water, WATER! The deeps howled as one beast to another, (she shudders) In my sleep, even now, I am in that Ark again being borne here, there on the great bosom. MRS. HAM: (wide-eyed) And the dead! Floating, floating all about us—We were one little speck of life in a world of death! (the bone slips from her hand) And there, close beside the Ark, close with her face upturned as if begging for shelter—my mother! (she weeps, HAM comforts her) MRS. SHEM: (eating vigorously) She would not repent. Thou art as thy mother was—a seeker after beauty of raiment and laughter. God is just. She would not repent. MRS. HAM: But the unrepentant are no less loved. And why must Jehovah hate beauty? NOAH: Speak no more of the waters. Oh, the strength of the waters! The voices and the death of it! Let us have the juice of the grape to make us forget. Where once was death in this Valley there is now life abundant of beast and herbs, (he waves toward the scenery) Jehovah meets us here. Dance! Be glad! Bring wine! Ham smite thy harp of ram's thews and sing! (MRS. NOAH gathers all the children and exits to the tent SHEM, JAPHETH, their wives and children eat vigorously, MRS. HAM exits, left HAM plays on his harp and capers about singing, MRS. HAM reenters with goat skin of wine and a bone cup. She crosses to where NOAH reclines on a large skin. She kneels and offers it to him. He takes the cup—she pours for him. HAM sings) HAM:

I am as a young ram in the Spring Or a young male goat. The hills are beneath my feet And the young grass. Love rises in me like the flood And ewes gather round me for food.

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(His wife joins in the dancing, NOAH cries "Pour" and MRS. HAM hurries to Jill his cup again, HAM joins others on the skins. The others have horns suspended from their girdles, MRS. HAM Jills them all. NOAH cries "pour" again and she returns to him. She turns to Jill the others9 cups) NOAH: (rising drunkenly) Pour again, Eve, and Ham sing on and dance and drink—drown out the waters of the flood if you can. (his tongue grows thick, EVE Jills his cup again. He reels drunkenly toward the tent door, slopping the liquor out of the cup as he walks.) Drink wine, forget water—it means death, death! And bodies floating, face up! (he stares horrified about himself and creeps stealthily into the tent but sprawls just inside the door so that his Jeet are visible. There is silence Jor a moment the others are still eating. They snatch tidbits Jrom each other) JAPHETH: (shoves his wife) Fruit and herbs, woman! (he thrusts her impatiently Jorward with his Joot. She exits left) i: (to his wife) More wine! SHBM: (irritated) See you not that there is plenty still in the bottle! (he seizes it and pours, HAM snatches it away and pours, SHEM tries to get it back but HAM prevents him. Reenter MRS. JAPHETH with Jigs and apples. Everbody grabs, HAM and SHEM grab Jor the same one, HAM gets it) MRS. SHEM: (significantly) Thus he seizes all else that he desires. Noah would make him lord of the Earth because he sings and capers, (HAM is laughing drunkenly and pelting MRS. SHEM withjruit skins and withered Jlowers that litter the ground. This infuriates her) NOAH: (callsJrom inside the tent) Eve, wine, quickly! I'm sinking down in the WATER! Come drown the WATER with wine.

(EVE exits to him with the bottle, HAM arises and starts toward the tent door)

drunkenly

THE FIRST ONE

HAM: (thickly) I go to pull our father out of the water, or to drown with him in it. (HAM is trying to sing and dance) "I am as a young goat in the sp-sp-sp-. (he exits to the tent laughing, SHEM and JAPHETH sprawl out in the skins. The wives are showing signs of surfeit. HAM is heard laughing raucously inside the tent. He reenters still laughing) HAM: (in the tent door) Our Father has stripped himself, showing all his wrinkles. Ha! Ha! He's as no young goat in the spring. Ha! Ha! (still laughing, he reels over to the altar and sinks down behind it) The old Ram, Ha! Ha! Ha! He has had no spring for years! Ha! Ha! (he subsides into slumber, MRS. SHEM looks about her exultantly) MRS. SHEM: Ha! The young goat has fallen into a pit! (she shakes her husband) Shem! Shem! Rise up and become owner of Noah's vineyards as well as his flocks! (SHEM kicks weakly at her) Shem! Fool! Arise! Thou art thy father's first born, (she pulls him protesting to his feet) Do stand up and regain thy birthright from (she points to the altar) that dancer who plays on his harp of ram thews, and decks his brow with bay leaves. Come! SHEM: (brightens) How? HIS WIFE: Did he not go into the tent and come away laughing at thy father's nakedness? Oh (she beats her breast) that I should live to see a father so mocked and shamed by his son to whom he has given all his vineyards! (she seizes a large skinjrom the ground) Take this and cover him and tell him of the wickedness of thy brother. MRS. JAPHETH: (arising takes hold of the skin also) No, my husband shall also help to cover Noah, our father. Did I not also hear? Think your Shem and his seed shall possess both flocks and vineyard while Japheth and his seed have only the fields? (she arouses JAPHETH, he stands.) SHEM: He shall share— MRS. SHEM: (impatiently) Then go in (the women release the skin to the men) quickly, lest he wake sober,

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then will he not believe one word against Ham who needs only to smile to please him. (The men lay the skin across their shoulders and back over to the tent and cover NOAH. They motion to leave him) s. SHBM: GO back, fools, and wake him. You have done but half. (They turn and enter the tent and both shake NOAH. He sits up and rubs his eyes. MRS. SHEM and MRS. JAPHETH commence to weep ostentatiously) NOAH: (peevishly) Why do you disturb me, and why do the women weep? I thought all sorrow and all cause for weeping was washed away by the flood, (he is about to lie down again but the men hold him up) SHEM: Hear, father, thy age has been scoffed, and thy nakedness made a thing of shame here in the midst of the feasting where all might know—thou the Lord of all under Heaven, hast been mocked. MRS. SHEM And we weep in shame, that thou our father should have thy nakedness uncovered before us. NOAH: (struggling drunkenly to his feet) Who, who has done this thing? MRS. SHEM: (timidly crosses and kneels before NOAHJ We fear to tell thee, lord, lest thy love for the doer of this iniquity should be so much greater than the shame, that thou should slay us for telling thee. NOAH: (swaying drunkenly) Say it, woman, shall the lord of the Earth be mocked? Shall his nakedness be uncovered and he be shamed before his family? SHEM: Shall the one who has done this thing hold part of thy goods after thee? How wilt thou deal with them? Thou hast been wickedly shamed. NOAH: NO, he shall have no part in my goods—his goods shall be parcelled out among the others. MRS. SHEM: Thou art wise, father, thou art just! NOAH: He shall be accursed. His skin shall be black! Black as the nights, when the waters brooded over the Earth!

THE FIRST ONE

(Enter MRS.

NOAH from

tent pauses by

NOAH)

5. NOAH: (catches him by the arm) Cease! Whom dost thou curse? NOAH: (shaking his arm free. The others also look awed and terrified and also move to stop him. All rush to him. MRS. NOAH attempts to stop his mouth with her hand. He shakes his head to free his lips and goes in a drunken Jury) Black! He and his seed forever. He shall serve his brothers and they shall rule over him—Ah—Ah—. (he sinks again to the ground. There is a loud burst of drunken laughter from behind the altar) HAM: Ha! Ha! I am as a young ram—Ha! Ha! s. NOAH: (to MRS. SHEMJ Who cursed Noah? SHEM: Ham—Ham mocked his age. Ham uncovered his nakedness, and Noah grew wrathful and cursed him. Black! He could not mean black. It is enough that he should lose his vineyards, (there is absolute silence for a while then realization comes to all. MRS. NOAH rushes in the tent to her husband, shaking him violently) MRS. NOAH: (voice from out of the tent) Noah! Arise! Thou art no lord of the Earth, but a drunkard. Thou hast cursed my son. Oh water, Shem! Japheth! Cold water to drive out the wine. Noah! (she sobs) Thou must awake and unsay thy curse. Thou must! (she is sobbing and rousing him. SHEM and JAPHETH seize a skin bottle from the ground by the skin door and dash off right, MRS. NOAH wails and the other women join in. They beat their breasts. Enter EVE through the tent. She looks puzzled) s. HAM: Why do you wail? Are all not happy today? NOAH: (pityingly) Come, Eve. Thou art but a child, a heavy load awaits thee. (EVE turns and squats beside her mother-in-law) EVE: (caressing MRS. NOAHJ Perhaps the wine is too new. Why do you shake our father? MRS. NOAH: Not the wine of grapes, but the wine of sorrow bestirs me thus. Turn thy comely face to the

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wall, Eve. Noah has cursed thy husband and his seed forever to be black, and to serve his brothers and they shall rule over him. (Reenter the men with the water bottle, running, MRS. NOAH seizes it and pours it in his face. He stirs) See, I must awaken him that he may unspeak the curse before it be too late. EVE: But Noah is drunk—surely Jehovah hears not a drunken curse. Noah would not curse Ham if he knew. Jehovah knows Noah loves Ham more than all. (She rushes upon NOAH and shakes him violently.) Oh, awake thou (she shrieks) and uncurse thy curse, (all are trying to rouse NOAH. He sits, opens his eyes wide and looks about him. MRS. NOAH caresses him.) MRS. NOAH: Awake, my lord, and unsay thy curse. NOAH: I am awake, but I know of no curse. Whom did I curse? MRS. NOAH AND EVEi Ham, lord of the Earth, (he rises quickly to hisjeet and looks bewildered about) JAPHETH: (falls at hisjeet) Our father, and lord of all under Heaven, you cursed away his vineyards, but we do not desire them. You cursed him to be black—he and his seed forever, and that his seed shall be our servants forever, but we desire not their service. Unsay it all. NOAH: (rushes downstage to the Jootlights, center. He beats his breast and bows his head to the ground) Oh, that I had come alive out of my mother's loins! Why did not the waters of the flood bear me back to the deeps! Oh Ham, my son! EVE: (rushing down to him) Unspeak the Curse! Unspeak the Curse! NOAH: (in prayerful attitude) Jehovah, by our covenant in this Valley, record not my curses on my beloved Ham. Show me once again the sign of covenant—the rainbow over the Vale of Ararat. SHEM: (strikes his wife) It was thou, covetous woman, that has brought this upon us. MRS. SHEM: (weeping) Yes, I wanted the vineyards for thee, Shem, because at night as thou slept on my

THE FIRST ONE

breast I heard thee sob for them. I heard thee murmur "Vineyards" in thy dreams. NOAH: Shem's wife is but a woman. MRS. NOAH: HOW rash thou art, to curse unknowing in thy cups the son of thy loins. NOAH: Did not Jehovah repent after he had destroyed the world? Did He not make all flesh? Their evils as well as their good? Why did He not with His flood of waters wash out the evil from men's hearts, and spare the creatures He had made, or else destroy us all, all? For in sparing one, He has preserved all the wickedness that He creates abundantly, but punishes terribly. No, He destroyed them because vile as they were it was His handiwork, and it shamed and reproached Him night and day. He could not bear to look upon the thing He had done, so He destroyed them. MRS. NOAH: Thou canst not question. NOAH: (weeping) Where is my son? SHEM: (pointing) Asleep behind the altar. NOAH: If Jehovah keeps not the covenant this time, if He spare not my weakness, then I pray that Ham's heart remains asleep forever. MRS. SHEM: (beseeching) O Lord of the Earth, let his punishment be mine. We coveted his vineyards, but the curse is too awful for him. He is drunk like you— save him, Father Noah. NOAH: (exultantly) Ah, the rainbow! The promise! Jehovah will meet me! He will set His sign in the Heavens! Shem hold thou my right hand and Japheth bear up my left arm. (NOAH approaches the altar and kneels. The two men raise his hands aloft) Our Jehovah who carried us into the ark— SONS: Victory, O Jehovah! The Sign. OTHERS: (beating their breasts) This is Thy Kingdom and we are here. NOAH: Who saved us from the Man of the Waters. SONS: Victory, O Jehovah! The Sign. OTHERS: We belong to Thee, Jehovah, we belong to Thee.

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(There is a sudden, loud raucous laugh from behind the altar, HAM sings brokenly, "I am a young ram in the Spring.") NOAH: (hopefully) Look! Look! To the mountain—do ye see colors appear? MRS. NOAH: None but what our hearts paint for us— ah, false hope. NOAH: Does the sign appear, I seem to see a faint color just above the mountain, (another laughfrom HAMJ EVE: None, none yet. (beats her breast violently, speaks rapidly) Jehovah, we belong to Thee, we belong to Thee. MRS. NOAH AND EVE: Great Jehovah! Hear us. We are here in Thy Valley. We who belong to Thee! (HAM slowly rises. He stands and walks around the altar to join the others, and they see that he is black. They shrink back terrified. He is laughing happily. EVE approaches him timidly as he advances around the end of the altar. She touches his hand, then his face. She begins kissing him) HAM: Why do you all pray and weep? EVE: Look at thy hands, thy feet. Thou art cursed black by thy Father, (she exits weeping left) HAM: (gazing horrified at his hands) Black! (he appears stupefied. All shrink away from him as if they feared his touch. He approaches each in turn. He is amazed. He lays his hand upon SHEMJ SHEM: (shrinking) Away! Touch me not! HAM: (approaches his mother. She does not repel him, but averts her face) Why does my mother turn away? MRS. NOAH: SO that my baby may not see the flood that hath broken the windows of my soul and loosed the fountains of my heart. (There is a great clamor offstage and EVE reenters left with her boy in her arms weeping and all the other children in pursuit jeering and pelting him with things. The child is also black, HAM looks at his child and falls at NOAH'sfeet)

THE FIRST ONE

(beseeching in agony) Why Noah, my father and lord of the Earth, why? NOAH: (sternly) Arise, Ham. Thou art black. Arise and go out from among us that we may see thy face no more, lest by lingering the curse of thy blackness come upon all my seed forever. HAM: (grasps his father's knees, NOAH repels him sternly, pointing away right EVE steps up to HAM and raises him with her hand. She displays both anger and scorn) EVE: Ham, my husband, Noah is right. Let us go before you awake and learn to despise your father and your God. Come away Ham, beloved, come with me, where thou canst never see these faces again, where never thy soft eyes can harden by looking too oft upon the fruit of their error, where never thy happy voice can learn to weep. Come with me to where the sun shines forever, to the end of the Earth, beloved the sunlight of all my years, (she kisses his mouth and forehead. She crosses to door of tent and picks up a water bottle, HAM looks dazedly about him. His eyes light on the harp and he smilingly picks it up and takes his place beside EVEJ HAM: (lightly cynical to all) Oh, remain with your flocks and fields and vineyards, to covet, to sweat, to die and know no peace. I go to the sun. (he exits right across the plain with his wife and child trudging beside him. After he is offstage comes the strumming of the harp and HAM'S voice happily singing: "I am as a young ram in the Spring." It grows fainter andfainter until it is heard no more. The sun is low in the west. NOAH sits looking tragically stern. All are ghastly calm. MRS. NOAH kneels upon the altar facing the mountain and she sobs continually. We belong to Thee, O Jehovah We belong to Thee. She keeps repeating this to a slow curtain) (Curtain)

203

Joseph S. Mitchell ( 1 8 9 1 - )

2O4

Born in Auburn, Alabama, to Solon and Elizabeth (Switcher) Mitchell, Joseph S. Mitchell was reared and schooled in the South, graduating from Talladega College before moving north to Boston. Six years after receiving his degree in jurisprudence from Boston University, he married Lucy Miller of Daytona Beach in 1923, and they raised two children, Laura and Joseph, Jr. Mitchell served as executive secretary to the governor and the governor's council during World War II and assistant attorney general between 1945 and 1949. In addition to these duties, he worked with the Boston Center for Adult Education for many years. He managed to find time to write plays when not practicing law or serving the community. He was among the very few black men either elected or appointed to public office in a northern city. Help Wanted first appeared in the second issue of Saturday Evening Quill (April 1929), a relatively conservative journal published by the Boston Quill Club, a group of young black intellectuals with literary interests who flourished during the 1920s. Before it ceased publication in 1930, it could boast of contributions from poet-composer Waring Cuney, ghetto poet Helene Johnson, novelist-editor Dorothy West (The Living Is Easy), and W. E. B. Du Bois, who thought Quill was

JOSEPH S. MITCHELL

more interesting than other notable black periodicals of the time, such as Wallace Thurman's Fire!! and Harlem. According to Abby Arthur Johnson and Ronald Mayberry Johnson in Propaganda and Aesthetics: The Literary Politics of Afro-American Magazines in the Twenties (University of Massachusetts Press, 1979), Thurman's writers "employed various dialects, rural and southern, urban and northern, and a variety of terms widely considered offensive, such as 'coon' and 'cracker,' " while Eugene Gordon, the editor of Quill, and his colleagues "depended on standard educated English, the type of language they used in their everyday professions." (The entire run of Quill is available on microfilm at the Schomburg Collection.) Though the Great Depression had barely begun when Mitchell wrote Help Wanted, his characters were already familiar with the experience of economic misfortune that would soon become nationwide. The audience was expected to know that Leon's family, like the author's, was part of the Great Migration to the North undertaken between 1915 and 1940 by more than a million southern Blacks who hoped to find a better life. Leon abhors the thought of returning to the racist South, but he cannot find work in the equally racist, strike-ridden, anonymous northern city where he lives. When his wife out of desperation urges him, because he is a light-skinned mulatto, to "pass," Leon refuses to take this subservient route to survival. His Aunt Nora (the elderly aunt is a stock character in early black drama) takes a job as a domestic to keep them alive, but she loses it because her employer prefers "yaller female help" over dark-skinned. Leon's potential employer, the white racist, is suggestively named "Juckes." When Leon reveals that he has invented a labor-saving device, the employment agency worker at first deplores it because it "throws people out of work," but then agrees to help him sell it. Ironically, the acceptance of Leon's invention proves to be disastrous for him, chiefly because he lacks the legal expertise to protect it against marauders. The impact of discrimination combined with eco-

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nomic hardship threatens to break up the close and loving relationship between Leon and Amy, but, as in the play by Willis Richardson, the male figure is a powerful and unifying presence and the strong family ties seem destined to survive every kind of adversity. Mitchell's "inside" view of black family life seems totally opposed to that of white sociologists who pronounced the demise of that institution because allegedly the influence of the male authority figure was absent. Inevitably dated in its diction, the play nonetheless has a surprisingly fresh and contemporary ambiance. Esther, the proprietor of the employment agency, rises above the stereotype of the white "dogooder," and the message of the play still rings true as an unpleasant reminder that sixty years later in parts of America racism still lives. References Johnson, Abby Arthur, and Ronald Mayberry Johnson. The Literary Politics of Afro-American Magazines in the Twentieth Century. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1979. Mitchell, Joseph S. "Son-Boy." Saturday Quill 1 (June 1928) :38.

Evening

Help Wanted Joseph S. Mitchell CHARACTERS a young married man AMY, Leon's wife NORA9 Amy's aunt JUCKES, a white foreman ESTHBR, proprietor of employment agency The time is the present The place is any northern city. LBON,

Scene I A kitchenette room in NORA'S house. There is a window on one side of the room. There are two doors, one of which leads into an adjoining room and the other of which opens into the back yard. A gas plate for cooking rests on a box in one corner of the room. A cot is in another corner, and a table is in the center. A few chairs are placed in different parts of the room. There are a few dishes on the table; a pitcher of water, a water glass, a wash-basin on one shelf; food cans are on another. When the curtain rises there is no one in the room. Presently, LEON, a mulatto of medium build and rather handsome, but wearing Originally published in Saturday Evening Quill (April 1929).

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a soiled collar, unpressed clothes, and unshined shoes, comes in. He has the morning paper in one hand. He walks despondently across the room, throws the paper on the table, and taking off his cap and top coat, tosses them on the cot. LEON then goes to the shelf, takes something out of a box, and begins to nibble. He sits down at table, takes the paper, and turns several pages. He lights a cigarette and reads a little, AMY, a mulatto, comes in from an adjoining room. She is a girl of about twenty and is dressed simply in a house Jrock. She is chewing gum. AMY: (going toward LEONJ Back so soon, Leon? LEON: Yes, Amy dear. Without any luck, as usual. AMY: (sitting close to LEONJ Didn't the man meet you,

take you to the plant and give you that job? LEON: NO. Never showed up. I waited on the corner for half an hour. Guess he's scared to take a chance of placing a colored man. (AMY reaches overjor the paper. He gives it to her) Nothing in there this morning for men. (he takes some papers out of his pocket and places them on the table) If I could get this invention accepted we wouldn't bother other people about giving us work. AMY: (throwing paper

aside

and stroking LEON'S

hair). And my Leon wouldn't have to walk himself to death looking for work and trying to get his invention accepted. (NORA, a dark-skinned woman, about forty years of age, dressed simply in old house clothes, comes in from the adjoining room) NORA: (going toward LEONJ Looka here, Leon, you cain't live on love 'round here all th' time. Y'all been married mos' nigh a month, an' y' ain't hit a lick o' work since. This your las' day for honeymoonin'. Git off your high-horses an' git somethin' to do. AMY: Mumsy, be patient; give him time. NORA: Done give 'im so much time already 'till our stomachs feel like judgment day done come, (looks

HELP WANTED

meanly at LEONJ YOU promised if I let you marry Amy you'd support me an' her both. Now look at you! Cain't even feed yourself. LEON: (fumbling nervously with his papers) Aunt Nora, this is the greatest invention of the age. If it's accepted well want for nothing, (there is a knock on the door of the adjoining room) NORA: (moving the dishes from the table to the shelf) Cain't eat that invention. LEON: Planning how to improve it. Know it will go big then. AMT: (stretching and yawning) See who's at the front door, Mumsy. NORA: I done raise you from a three-weeks' old baby, when your ma an' pa got killed by the train on their way to work— ANT: (interrupting) Go ahead, Mumsy. That's an old story. NORA: (going into the adjoining room) Now it's enough to feed an' sleep you idlers without waitin' on you, too. (NORA goes out) LEON: (standing up and looking in the direction in which NORA went) I know now I'd better start on my daily rounds, (AMY walks over casually to the window and begins looking out) Gee, honey, you can't imagine how hard it is to find work! AMT: It's raining. My sweetums don't want to get wet looking for an old job. You'll be your own boss, soon. LEON: That's what I always wanted to be. I have made the sacrifice. Now, since you wish me to, I will! (NORA and JUCKES come in from the dining room, JUCKES is a red-faced white man, heavy-built and rather tall; an outdoor workman, wearing overalls, and smoking an old pipe. He carries an air of superiority. He does not stand still but walks and looks around as if he owned the place. When he enters NORA IS walking slightly behind him)

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JOSEPH S. MITCHELL NORA: (speaking in a humble tone) Yes, sir, Mr. Juckes, he needs work. Whether he wants it or not, give 'im somethin' to do. LEON: (manfully, and extending his right hand to JUCKES, who apparently does not notice it) Good morning, Mr. Juckes. Got something good for me to do today, Mr. Juckes? JUCKES: Got a good porter's job. Fifteen dollars a week. The colored porter we had struck with the white workers. LEON: Got something else, more in my line? JUCKES: (excitedly) What's the difference, so long as it's work? AHT: (angrily) You white folks think that's all a colored man can do—porter's work. Leon didn't get an education to be a porter. Did you, sweetums? JUCKES: Better be glad to get that from us, so long as you ain't got nothing yourselves. NORA: Don't be sassy, Amy. I didn't raise you that way. LEON: What about a machinist's job, over to the plant, Mr. Juckes? JUCKES: Them's dangerous. Strikers might kill you. NORA: Porter's work's better'n starvin'! LEON: (glancing at his invention papers) Well, I'd like to work at my trade. NORA: He's scared of gittin' corns in his hands, Mr. Juckes. Always lookin' for work an' prayin' to God he won't find none. LEON: Not that, Mumsy, (speaking to JUCKES rather indignantly) I resent discrimination! It's the principle! It's the principle! NORA: Cain't eat principle. JUCKES: (sneeringly) Take it or leave it. That's what I say about you educated fools. (JUCKES goes out For a Jew moments there is silence. LEON sits down at the table, NORA begins examining the boxes on the shelf, AMY continues looking out of

HELP WANTED

the window, LEON rests his chin in the palm of his right hand) What about the North: Get an education and can't use it. Spend money and can't earn it. AMY: (shaking her head in a discouraged manner) And conditions are getting worse. NORA: (to LEONJ If you cain't find work 'roun here y' ought to go back South. Plenty there. AMY: (coming from windows to the center of room) I have something to say about that. LEON: Me! Go South! What chance have I got to be a man? Rather be a lamp post here. NORA: Keep on bein' out o' work you'll be a tombstone. (There is a knock on side door, left) Come in: (NORA goes THER is a

and opens door and ESTHER comes in. ESblond woman of medium height about thirty, and dressed in a plain business suit She has the manner and bearing of an intelligent and cultured person, AMY and LEON stand up)

ESTHBR: (coming to center of room) Good morning. (bowing to everyone in the room) AMY: (together with LEONJ Good morning, (LEON offers ESTHER a seat ESTHER and LEON sit down, AMY arranges a pillow on cot and lazily reclines on it NORA continues working) NORA: Good mornin'. You'd think it's evenin', tho\ the way they's bangin' 'round the house. Glad you come, Miss Esther. Never see you less'n you have some work. ESTHER: Came by on my way to the office to see how you like your new place. Haven't seen you since I placed you. NORA: (looking at ESTHER sharply from corner of eye) You ought to know better'n what you done! ESTHER: I thought I was helping you by getting you work. NORA: But what kind of work? ESTHER: Don't you like domestic work?

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JOSEPH S. MITCHELL NORA: Umph! That ain't it, an' you know it. Couldn't 'spect no better from you white folks. BSTHBR: Sorry, Mrs. Lewis, if I hurt your feelings. NORA: Umph! ESTHER: Have something else for you. I was planning to give it to Amy, but I'd rather for you have it. A Mrs. Thorne, at number 23 Bay Road, wants a good woman to do day's work— NORA: (interrupting) She ain't cullud, is she, like that woman you sent me to before? AMY: Mumsy, you know they won't let colored people live on Bay Road. They hardly want them to work there. ESTHER: (puzzled) What of it if she were colored? NORA: Not stuck on workin' for cullud folks. ESTHER: Well, Mrs. Thorne is white. I promised her I'd have a smart woman the first thing this morning. The pay is three dollars a day, carfare, and one meal. NORA: Least one member of th' family can keep from starvin'—work myself to death 'round here an' get nothing' for it— ESTHER: (interrupting) Go right away, please, (gives NORA a piece of paper) Take this note of introduction. NORA: Thanks, Miss Esther. How much I owe you for that? ESTHER: She'll hold my commission out of your pay. NORA: Wait 'till next week 'fore you let her take it out, 'cause we ain't scarcely got a mouthful of food. ESTHER: I'll send her wdrd> to give it all to you. NORA: (bowing in appreciation) Very much oblige! You's so considerate! The Lord will bless you. Is it askin' you too much to find a job for them chillun? (she points to AMY and LEON, who have been at the table all the while whispering inaudibly and examining the papers) He's my son-in-law now. Amy's done gone plum crazy an' got married since you's 'round here las'.

HELP WANTED BSTHBR: (looking at AMY and LEON with some surprise, and receiving a smile from them) Oh, what a nice-looking couple! (a brief pause) Let them come over to my office. Maybe I can find something for your niece. AMY: (indignantly) Leon promised to support me. Didn't you, sweetums? LEON: (standing up and lighting a cigarette) Not only promised. Ill work if work can be found. I am not the kind to loaf. ESTHER: Work for colored people is very scarce. The people who prefer white help will sometimes take colored for less wages. AMY: Nobody need think I'm going to do more work for less wages because I am not white. NORA: Your husband will have to do it, then. ESTHER: Yes, because work for men is scarcer. NORA: Women have to support men, when they can get work and men cain't. (NORA goes out into adjoining

room and changes her dress)

AMY: Catch me doing it! LEON: (sitting carelessly on one side of the table and speaking seriously) Since we've married, Miss Gaines, we have gotten tough breaks. I have walked the streets until my feet are blistered, looking for something to do. What chance have I except in my own line? They wouldn't even think about giving a colored man a clerical position. Can't get a butler's or a cook's or a waiter's job, unless I am experienced. Everybody now is a specialist, (taking his invention papers in his hands) My invention is good, if only I could interest the proper person. I took it over to the plant a few months ago. They kept it awhile, then refused it. They said it was not good; but I know better. (appealingly) Perhaps, Miss Gaines, you could introduce me to some of the big shoe manufacturers. (shows her the papers) I understand you have their ear to many things.

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iz (looking at the papers curiously and interestedly) What is the name of your invention? LEON: "Shoe-Leather Stitcher." It eliminates work, and saves time. ESTHBR: Look at the number of people it would throw out of work. The reason you are out of work today is that there are so many such inventions. LEON: (smoking more rapidly, gesticulating with his hands and speaking bitterly) You're mistaken, Miss Gaines. It's because I had the misfortune of being born in this country into a despised race. Whatever I attempt to do suffers the same misfortune. Here, color is the mother of misfortune. ESTHER: (calmly) You must not be so bitter, Mr. Davis. Bitterness begets bitterness; it is the twin brother of failure. To show you that your attitude is the wrong one, Mr. Davis, I, a person whom you think to be against you and your people, will intercede in placing your invention in one of the largest shoe plants in the city. Is it patented? LEON: The patent is pending. Nothing like it in the entire shoe industry. If I were a white man I'd be a millionaire tomorrow. (NORA comes in from the adjoining room. She is dressed to go out She has hat and coat in her hands) ESTHER: It is not the color, young man; it is the individual. NORA: I done tol' 'im, Miss Esther, he'd starve waitin' on that invention. What he needs is work, an' not work 'liminator. Work is scarce 'nough as 'tis. ESTHER: (getting up and going toward side door, left, laying papers on table as she passes) Looks like a good thing, Mr. Davis. In the meantime I'll try to get you some work. Come around to my office as soon as you can. I am certain I can place you at the shoe plant. They always take my recommendations, (she goes out) NORA: (putting on hat and coat) Got to hurry and git this job 'fore somebody else beats me to it. Don't y' all

HELP WANTED

hang 'round here all day, spoonin'. Hurry down to that 'ployment office. Winter's mos' nigh here. Cain't live off love like you do in Summer. This is the las' day I'm s'portin' you. 'Fore I gits back, you fetch me a job or git yourself a new roostin' place, (NORA goes out, AMY and LEON look at each other solemnly, then smile) LEON: (glancing at the papers lying on the table) This invention is just the thing, hon\ If that company I saw the other day accepts it, we won't be cold or hungry any more, (AMY comes over to LEON and stands beside him, placing her hands partly around his shoulders) AMY: Then we can honeymoon all the time, can't we, sweetums? LEON: (shaking his head) Oh, but they'll refuse me, because I'm colored. AMY: Color doesn't matter with a big company like that. LEON: All alike. You don't know, honey; you're still young, innocent, inexperienced, unused and unaccustomed to the prejudices of the white man's world. I have had bitter ones. Bitter as gall! Sometimes, honey, my hidden feelings almost burst into angry flames. It was only the other day I was the sole colored applicant out of about fifty others for a mechanical position. The boss recognized me an' yelled, "You," pointing his finger at me, "I'm speaking to you. You needn't stay. This is a white man's job." AMY: You're too reserved, too sensitive, my own big boy. Don't let them get away with that nonsense! They don't know you're colored over at the place where you're trying to sell your invention, do they? LEON: NO; but they have an idea. AMY: Don't tell 'em. You can pass. Pass for a foreigner—a Cuban, a Mexican, a Spaniard—anything except an American colored man. Miss Esther will help you. Heard what she said? LEON: (his head resting between his hands) That's yellow! To get away from my race. After all it has undergone for me. And all I owe it. And as much as it

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needs me. I must rise or fall with my people. My conscience! My pride! Honey! (jumps to his Jeet) Good God! No! AMY: If this keeps up, sweetums, you won't live to stay in your race. This is an age of individualism. Think of your little honey. Pass and live; or stay and starve. LBON: (in a mood of thinking seriously) That's right. My marriage vows. I have never made any vows publicly to my race. Ill think it over. In the meantime I'd better get in the streets again, (puts on his hat and coat) You heard what Mumsy said, (goes toward side door at left, looks affectionately at AMY, who follows him) And I remember my marriage vows. I feel that Miss Gaines can place me at the plant. AMY: You're forgetting something, (a pause. He returns and kisses her passionately) You won't be away from your honey long, will you, sweetums? (he shakes his head and goes out She stands in the door and looks longingly at him. She sighs) (Curtain)

Scene II The place is ESTHER'S employment office. The time is about half an hour later. There is a door at the rear and a door at the right side. There is a window on one side of the room, overlooking the street Cards and posters advertising for house-maids, butlers, waiters and other domestic help, and all kinds of labor, are hung on the walls of the room. As the curtains rise ESTHER is seen seated at her desk. She is looking over employment books, JUCKES comes in, dressed as in Scene I. All the while he is in the room, standing or walking about, he keeps his hat on and his pipe in his mouth. He maintains an air of crude superiority. JUCKES: Anything on your books this morning? BSTHER: A good proposition to put to you.

HELP WANTED JUCKES: That's for me to say, whether it's good or not. (abruptly leaning over on desk and looking ESTHER straight in the eye) What about all the work I've thrown your way? Not a cent from it. (A cynical laugh) I ain't in it for my health. ESTHER: (pushing JUCKES back) Well talk about that later. (JUCKES slowly gets back) A poor boy who has nothing to do has a marvelous invention—a new idea in sewing shoes— JUCKES: Anything in THIS for me? ESTHER: Yes, if we can place it in a plant and give the poor fellow something to do to help his family. JUCKES: That's right; we need workers. That's what I come for. Got any on hand? ESTHER: Most of the white non-union men are afraid to work at the plant. I can get some colored. JUCKES: White and colored won't mix well. White men won't stand to work with colored. ESTHER: (sternly) Who runs your business, employers or employees? JUCKES: In a way, the workers. If we hire too many colored, the white quit. Then we can't find enough colored to fill their places. ESTHER: That's a preconceived notion. JUCKES: Can't depend enough on the colored, anyway, to change. They get drunk and lay off. They stay from work to go to a funeral or to enjoy a day's drunk. ESTHER: How do you know, Mr. Juckes? You've never had any. JUCKES: That's what everybody says. ESTHER: Can't take everybody's word to determine a person's qualifications. Certainly, there's some bad colored, just as there's some bad white. Some good, strong, brawny colored, like the white. If they make profit for you and me, what's the difference? JUCKES: They belong on the farms in the South. Too many up here. Starve 'em out, and they'll have to go back. Just got enough jobs for our own boys.

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That's not patriotism—nor Christianity. By gad, what do I care about either! Us white folks come first. Anything left, the niggers can have it. Time they getting something for themselves. ESTHER: (in a pleading tone) Until they're able, they must be given work, like any other class. JUCKES: YOU make me think funny about you, Miss Esther. You can't afford in this day and time to be another Garrison. You might get worse treatment. Country ain't going to fight over the niggers again. Never turned you down, but I'll have to, this time. As a realto-goodness white man, I can't stand to see no colored man working beside a white woman, (goes toward door) ESTHER: No white women work in the machine department. JUCKES: (going out of door) Got to hurry. Bet some of them scabs quit. Be back in a few minutes to see what workers you have. Meantime I'll look into that invention. (JUCKES goes out ESTHER continues looking over her books. A Jew seconds later LEON comes in. He extends his right hand to ESTHER They shake hands) ESTHBR: JUCKES:

LEON: I am here, Miss Gaines. ESTHER: And ready for work, Mr. Davis? LEON: If I can get any. (pulls out his invention

papers) All I've been able to do since I've been married was to work on my invention—and I was working on it long before I married. ESTHER: (looking over her books) The great difficulty is finding a machinist's position. LEON: (in a harsh, disappointed tone) You mean for colored? ESTHER: (in a disconcerted manner) Er—er—I have no objection. I like to help the colored people. You must get that idea out of your mind. LEON: I cannot, Miss Gaines, so long as I am a colored man in America and denied the chance to make a

HELP WANTED

living because I am colored. What about the job at the plant you promised to get me, Miss Gaines? BSTHBR: I've thought it over. You wouldn't like the job. It's too dangerous, and the pay is too small. LEON: Anything, so long as it's work. ESTHER: Be seated, Mr. Davis, (LEON sits down) I'll see whether I have anything you can do. (ESTHER begins looking over her books, AMY comes in, walking fast) AMT: (getting chair and taking seat beside LEONJ Oh, sweetums, I'm so glad I caught you in time. LEON: Somebody wants me to work? Or good news about the invention? AMT: Neither. I don't want my sweetums to work too hard. LEON: Got to do something. You must eat and sleep. ESTHER: (looking at AMY and speaking sternly) Sorry, Mr. Davis, all I have to offer is hard work. (NORA comes in. She is dressed as she was when she went out in Scene I) AMT: (standing, indignantly) My husband doesn't have to take anything you have to offer. He has an invention, (LEON leads AMY aside instantly) LEON: NOW, honey, you'd better keep quiet, or I won't be able to get anything. AMT: I'm your wife. I have a right to speak, (LEON walks away disgustedly from AMY. She follows) ESTHER: (astonished, to NORAJ Why did you come back, Mrs. Lewis? NORA: (standing up, leaning over desk and shaking herforefinger in ESTHER'S face) You knowd where you's sending me! ESTHER: (leaning back in chair) Certainly, to a family who wanted good, female help. NORA: (loudly) Yaller female help! ESTHER: What do you mean? NORA: (standing back a step or two, hands on hips and head thrown back) This white woman you sent

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me to pretended not to know what I come for. I told her you sent me. She said: "There must be some mistake. I want a white girl or a light-skinned colored girl." I didn't spare my breath in speakin' my mind. "I'm not to blame 'cause my daddy an' mammy wasn't white," I says. "I cain't help from bein' black no more'n you can from bein' white," I says. "Black is as honest as white." That's what I told her. (sits down again) I ain't particular about workin' for poor white trash like her no how. ESTHER: (embarrassedly) Oh, I'm so sorry! NORA: All y' all white folks alike. Don't give a person a good job 'cause she's black. ESTHER: I'll see if I can send you somewhere else, Mrs. Lewis. NORA: Rather starve than go to a place like that. (points to AMY and LEONJ Them's two yaller. See if you cain't git them something to do. ESTHER: (looking at her book, then speaking to LEON) Mr. Davis, there's a butler's position on Friend Street. (AMY whispers to LEON) LEON: (apparently paying no attention to AMYJ Place for man and wife? ESTHER: Don't think so. J u s t a travelling salesman and his wife. AMY: He can't take a job like that without me. Can you, sweetums? LEON: What's the matter with it? I must do something, (NORA shows disgust by turning her back momentarily) AMY: (angrily) You married me to live with me, not to live with someone else. ESTHER: I have some calls for longshoremen. AMY: (standing over the desk near ESTHER,/ Leon can't hurt his back lifting heavy things. Rather work myself. You white folks just want to kill all the good colored men. (turns away) Won't do it to my man. (LEON makes one or two steps toward desk as if to

HELP WANTED 2 2 1 speak to ESTHER AMY slightly pushes him back with one hand) You stand back. I have something to say about the work you're to do. (LEON stands aghast He gives a disgusted grunt, shrugs his shoulders, and walks away a Jew paces. There is complete silence for a Jew moments) ESTHER: (still looking over her books) Here's a call for a maid in a wealthy family, (ESTHER glances at NORA) NORA: Don't look at me. Betcha they don't want colored. LEON: (with a side glance at ESTHER) Let them do without them. NORA: We's the one that's bad off. AMY: DO they furnish room? ESTHER: Yes; board, too. Don't have to leave the place for anything. NORA: (to AMY) Better take that. ESTHER: Fifteen dollars a week. Thursdays off. AMY: (walking farther away from desk toward window) Oh, my hubby doesn't want me to stay away from him so long, (looking at LEON) DO you, sweetums? Nobody to cook his meals and launder his clothes, (AMY begins looking out of window) NORA: Better get some meals to cook and clothes to wash, first. ESTHER: (to LEON) They want men at Foss's Foundry. LEON: I don't mind trying something. The way I feel, I am strong enough to do anything. NORA: YOU look just like I feel—hungry. AMY: (to ESTHER) What is it like? ESTHER: (impatiently) Carry iron; mostly pig-iron. AMY: (excitedly) He can't blister his hands! It'll unfit him to handle his invention. NORA: Sittin' 'round holdin' hands all day, he'll blister somethin' else. LEON: (to AMY) If you'll only keep quiet, honey. I'll have the work to do, and not you.

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comes in. He walks up unceremoniously to the desk) AMY: And 111 be the widow, and not you. JUCKES: (to ESTHERJ Can you get your hands on a good machinist right away, Miss Esther? (LEON and AMY appear especially interested) The superintendent hired several this morning. When they found a strike was on they got scared and left. ESTHBR: (appearing disconcerted) I think I can find someone. NORA: Got to go, Miss Esther. Cain't sit around an' wait for work to come to me. Just thought of somebody who hires black folks. See what you can do for them chillum, so they can have somewhere to stay tonight. ESTHER: Very well, Mrs. Lewis, (NORA goes out) JUCKES: See what you can do, Miss Esther. The work's all tied up waiting to get machinists. Anybody will do, so long as he knows something about his business. ESTHER: (leaning over on her desk and looking JUCKES directly in the eye) What's the strike about, anyway, Mr. Juckes? I've heard so many reports. JUCKES: (glancing casually at LEON, who appears deeply interested in the conversation) Something's new been installed. Takes the place of two or three workmen. The company is willing to keep all the men for six months longer, but at lower wages. They won't stand to be cut. All the unions supporting them. ESTHER: (hesitatingly, to LEONJ Mr. Davis, a good job for you. JUCKES: (looking scornfully at LEON,/ NO use sending him. Can't use colored, I told you. ESTHER: (rather boldly) He's recommended very highly. Finished from one of the best mechanical and technical schools. JUCKES: Makes no difference if he's the best in the world, the boss won't use him if he knows he's colored. YJUCKES

HELP WANTED 2 2 3 LEON: (standing up and walking over nearer JUCKESJ Know what I think about you, Juckes? JUCKES: (walking away from LEON contemptuously) My name is Mr. Juckes; and what you think gets you nowhere. LEON: (following JUCKESJ Some day youll change your mind. A big boob like you don't know the Civil War is over. The sooner the country gets rid of the likes of you, the better. JUCKES: (still walking away from LEON and speaking angrily) The idea of a nigger talking to a white man like that! That kind of stuff don't get you anywhere. Know what I'd do to you if I had you down South? (JUCKES draws a finger across his own throat AMY and ESTHER appearfrightened, AMY leaves the window and takes hold of LEON. ESTHER jumps between LEON and JUCKESJ

ESTHER: YOU men are positively insulting! (leads JUCKES to the door) Mr. Juckes, 111 see what I can do for

you right away. JUCKES: DO the best you can. (cutting his eye hatefully at LEONJ) But don't send that half-white nigger. (LEON makes a quick move toward JUCKES, trying to break AMY'S hold on him. JUCKES goes out hurriedly. There is silence for a few seconds, LEON, with bowed head and clenched fists, walks over slowly and sits down, AMY follows him) ESTHER: (taking seat at her desk) Don't let what he says worry you, Mr. Davis. Calm yourself. I'll get you something to do. (AMY sits near LEON. She takes a kerchief out of LEON'S coat pocket and wipes his forehead. After a brief pause LEON gets up and goes over to ESTHER'S desk and casually sits down on side of it and begins speaking to ESTHERJ LEON: YOU must excuse me, Miss Gaines, for losing my temper in your place of business. He made me do it. Besides keeping me out of work, insulting me. More than I could stand. If I hadn't been in your place— well, I don't know what I would have done.

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JOSEPH S. MITCHELL ESTHBR: Quiet your nerves, Mr. Davis, and let's see about getting something to do. (after a moment's reflection) You do look like white, Mr. Davis. LBON: I am often mistaken. AMY: And he often passes without realizing it. ESTHER: (in a retaliatory tone) Pass now and take this machinist's job. They'll never know the difference. LEON: Old Juckes would have a fit. He'll give me away. Like throwing oil on fire to send me around there. The way I feel won't do for us two to meet, Miss Gaines. Perhaps I'd live longer by starving. ESTHER: He's a foreman in the yard. He'll never see you. Oh, but do you belong to the union? LEON: In my application I stated I was colored, and was refused. I shall always believe old Juckes was to blame. ESTHER: All the better, in this case, that you are not a union man. AMY: Any danger in being a strike-breaker? Can't let my hubby get hurt. Can I, sweetums? LEON: Our present plight is graver than that. ESTHER: They need men. They'll protect you. LEON: My only objection, Miss Gaines, is that it goes against the grain to betray myself. But I must do something, (to AMYJ Our last day with Mumsy, honey, if I don't get some work. Ill take a chance. That's all life is, chance. r: But what about your invention? &: (entreatingly) But, madam, you can't eat his invention, now. LEON: (pleadingly) It must wait for a while. AMY: (angrily) I hope I didn't marry an old machinist. LEON: Be reasonable sometimes, honey! AMY: Reasonable, nothing! Obey white folks before you will me! They don't mean you any good. You can see she wants you killed, (goes hurriedly toward door) 111 get me a job and support myself, (she goes out hurriedly)

1

HELP WANTED ESTHER: (handing LEON a card) This is your card of introduction to the superintendent of the works. Pull your cap down over your eyes so no one will recognize you. Go around the side entrance so old Juckes won't see you. LEON: (putting his invention papers securely in his coat pocket and pulling up top coat collar) You Ye bighearted, Miss Gaines. (he pulls cap down over his eyes and goes out)

(Curtain)

Scene III The time is the late afternoon of the same day. Scene is the same as Scene I. As the curtains rise AMY is seen lying on the cot She is covered with a blanket and is asleep, NORA, who is dressed as in Scene II, comes in from the street She walks as if she is very tired. At first NORA drops down in a chair near the table; then she sits thinking for a Jew moments. She shakes her head, sighs, glances at the pages of the newspaper which is still lying on the table, then throws it aside. She gets up and takes off her hat and coat She goes over to the shelf, pours from the pitcher a glass of water, which she drinks. She suddenly espies AMY lying on the cot and goes over to her. NORA: (shaking AMY) What you layin' here for? AMY: (arousing and yawning) Humph! NORA: What you doin' sleepin', this time o' day. AMY: (stretching lazily) Nothin' else to do. NORA: Thought you got a job from Miss Esther! AMY: (sitting on side of cot. She is wearing a silk negligee) This little mamma isn't going to kill herself working. NORA: J U S ' as well die workin' as die starvin'. You can git somethin' for workin'. AMY: (walking lazily across the room to the window) 111 do neither, so long as I got a good daddy.

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JOSEPH S. MITCHELL NORA: (in astonishment) The nerve! Marry a man to lay up on him! AMY: (looking out the window) What do you think I married him for? NORA: TO starve you to death. But he won't do it in this house. AMY: Don't be silly, Mumsy. He's working, now. NORA: Peddlin' that no-count invention? AMY: (taking a dress which is lying on a chair near window and putting it on) At the shoe factory. He has a swell job. Seventy-five per—five and a half days a week. NORA: That's a white man's job. AMY: That's what they think he is. NORA: Old Juckes knows him. The way he hates colored folks, Leon won't last no time. AMY: Juckes works in a different department, (AMY

begins looking out of window again. Her interest in what is going on on the outside grows deeper and deeper)

NORA: Nothin' too mean for old Juckes to do, if he finds out. How did Leon git such a job? AMY: He's a strike-breaker. NORA: (with a sigh of relief) Just in time to break our hungry strike. What did they strike this time for? AMY: Their wages were cut on account of some old invention. NORA: Scarce as work is they's fools for quittin'. What is they gittin' whilst they's quittin'? They's gittin' hungry—an' somebody else in their place. Hope Leon won't go an' turn fool. Let me git a good job. No such luck for a poor cullud person, 'cept he's a strikebreaker or is yaller an' can pass. When white folks fall out us cullud folks gits our just deserts, (she pauses) Why don't you be gittin' your husband's supper? Mos' nigh time for him to come home. AMY: (looking more intently out of window) Look at the men gathering over there!

HELP WANTED NORA: (glancinjg out the window) He can't eat them men. AHT: Nothing here to cook, (she runs into adjoining

room)

NORA: What you do? Eat it all up? {looking around at different food utensils on the shelf.) No meal!—No

flour!—No meat!—No grits!—No peas!—No 'taters!—No

coffee!— (stands in the center of the room and shows

discouragement)

No job!—NO NOTHING!

ANY: (coming out of adjoining room, dressed for the street) Mumsy, I'm going out to see what's the disturbance's about. The strikers are surging on the plant! Oh, lots of excitement! Got to see about Leon, (putting powder on nose and face as fast as she can) NORA: Quittin' time. Bound to be trouble! The Governor had to call out the soldiers the last time. Foreigners takin' our jobs. Don't blame 'em for strikin'. What good can you do? You too giddy! (AMY runs out NORA goes over to the window and looks out She puts on her coat and hat As she starts out of the side door, left, she meets AMY and ESTHER coming in supporting LEON, who appears badly injured. The noise of the crowd may be heard a little distance from the house, AMY and ESTHER are apparently overburdened by the weight of LEON'S body)

(excitedly) What's the matter? (ESTHER waves her hand at NORA to keep quiet They lay LEON on the cot. He is heard to give frequent distressing groans and murmurs, AMY gets a cloth, dampens it with water which she pours out of the pitcher, and wipes LEON'S face, neck and forehead) NORA:

ESTHER: Take off his shoes, Mrs. Lewis, (NORA does

so. A few seconds later JUCKES comes in brusquely. He looks almost fiendish in his appearance. He approaches the cot hastily) JUCKES: (taking hold of ESTHER'S arm, roughly) What you butt in for?

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JOSEPH S. MITCHELL ESTHER: (Jerking away instantly) What do you mean? Have you lost your mind? (to NORAJ Bring some water in a basin, Mrs. Lewis, (NORA does SO) JUCKES: (loudly) The idea of a white woman— er—you almost got killed. You ought to stay in your office and mind your own business. Told you not to send him over there. Can't put nothing over on me. I'm the best watchman the company could have found to catch a skunk like him, sneaking in. ESTHER: (still attending LEON and looking up at JUCKESJ Think I'd stand and see him murdered? I saw from my office window what was being done to him. (JUCKES stands closer to her in a threatening manner) You wouldn't strike me. You're too big a coward. JUCKES: (stepping back) The way you acting you must be colored yourself. ESTHER: (angrily) What if I am? JUCKES: (going toward side door, left) Well, you won't have no employment office long. I'll see to that! What you take us white folks for? We run this town. Niggers don't. ESTHER: (starting at JUCKES with a cutting eye) Other ways of making a living. JUCKES: (loudly) Look for it, then—and not around here, either, (JUCKES goes out ESTHER gives her complete attention to LEONJ NORA: (going up to ESTHER and looking her surprisingly in the eye) Miss Esther, I didn't know you's cullud! ESTHER: (still attending LEONJ One-eighth— NORA: (interrupting) Don't blame you for passin' if you can git more out o' it. Wish sometimes I could pass, (looking at herself) Guess no chance, though. ESTHER: Feel mighty guilty sometimes, (leaning closer to LEON, who is murmuring audibly) What did he say, Mrs. Davis? AMT: Something about his invention, (ESTHER leans closer to LEON as he mutters)

HELP WANTED NORA: (getting closer to LEONJ The poor boy ain't fit to work for nobody for a long time. Cain't throw him out,

though, (turns and walks a Jew steps away) Don't

know what we's goin' to do now. ESTHER: Don't worry, Mrs. Lewis. I'll lend you money until you get work. NORA: (stepping up and throwing one arm forcibly around ESTHER'S neck, ESTHER has to balance herself) Thanks, Miss Esther. You's a angel! What's he sayin'? ESTHER: His invention works. They stole it and are using it at the shoe factory—workers and strikers found out he's colored and tried to kill him. Had to run and fight through for his life. The company found out he's the inventor of the shoe-machine, and the officers also tried to get him out of the way. That's the trouble with old Juckes. That's why he didn't want me to have anything to do with Mr. Davis. Tried to lay it to something else—He appears to be growing weaker. AMY: Just because of an old job. NORA: Just because he's cullud. AMY: Darn the work! NORA: (in an ironical tone) What did he marry you for? ESTHER: (leaving LEON and going toward side door, left) He must have a doctor. NORA: (getting ready to go out) Better let me git one, Miss Esther. What about your 'ployment office? People want jobs. ESTHER: I can get a doctor quicker. People and jobs can wait, (ESTHER goes out) AMY: Hang the jobs! Let her get the doctor. We'll reimburse her out of the money we get from suing that old company for stealing the invention. Won't we, sweetums? NORA: (pushing AMY aside and taking her position beside LEONJ Give me that rag! Y' ain't doin' it right. (AMY gives her cloth and moves back) Here, wet the rag. (AMY does so) This boy's sho' hurt bad. (to AMYJ YOU have to work, now. (glancing up at newspaper lying

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on table) Heap o' calls in that paper for cooks, dishwashers an' washwomen, (AMY throws up her head) Don't turn up your nose an' this boy nearly dead tryin' to make a livin' for you. (as the curtains Jail NORA is leaning over LEON bathing his wounds, AMY is helping by wetting the cloth) (Curtain)

Shirley Graham (1896-1977) Shirley Lola Graham (nee Lola Bell), playwright, director, biographer, and feminist, was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, on November 11, 1896. Her mother was an Amerindian of Cherokee blood who raised four sons and a daughter, and her father was an African Methodist Episcopal minister, in her own words "a true shepherd of his flock," who encouraged his children to love African history and the classics and to venerate all forms of life (Graham called this "an African trait"). It was in his church where she sang spirituals, conducted the choir, and learned to play the piano and the organ. She remembers that one of her childhood heroes, Frederick Douglass, about whom she would later write a book, visited her grandfather's farm carrying with him the sword of Toussaint UOverture. After completing her early education at Lewis and Clark High School in Spokane, Washington, she worked there for the government during World War I and then at the navy yard in Seattle, where she met and married Shadrach T. McCanns in 1921. She relied on her musical skills to provide the extra money they needed to raise two sons, Robert and David. In the mid-1920s, the couple was divorced, and when her father was appointed principal of a mission college in 2 3 1

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Monrovia, Liberia (where her brother Lorenz was already serving as attache at the American Embassy), Graham accompanied her family as far as France. There she studied music at the Sorbonne and met many Blacks from Senegal and Martinique, who introduced her to African music. Her brother, who had gone into the Liberian jungle, also taught her authentic rhythms and rituals that she would later use in Tom-Tom. When she returned from Paris, Graham taught music at Morgan College and continued her studies in musicology at Oberlin College. During this period, she began to write plays. She sent a copy of a one-act called Tom-Tom to Russell and Rowena Jelliffe, who would later found the Karama Playhouse in Cleveland, hoping that the Gilpin Players would take it into their repertory. At the time, the Jelliffes could not accommodate her, but in the spring of 1932, when producer Lawrence Higgins asked them if they could unearth a black opera for his ambitious summer program called "Theatre of Nations," Mrs. Jelliffe remembered the script of Tom-Tom. Graham was encouraged to transform it into a musical pageant. Higgins gave her a hotel room and a piano. Within three months, she had expanded the one-act into a sixteen-scene, three-act opera ready for a June 30 premiere at the Cleveland Stadium. Following this early success, Graham lectured and concertized at black colleges and sorority gatherings between 1932 and 1935. She completed a master's thesis entitled "The Survival of Africanism in American Music" at Oberlin and, according to Kathy Perkins, gained stature as a leader of her people in the musical world as a historian and composer. During her summers at Oberlin, she attended Columbia University and taught at the Washington Conservatory of Music. In 1935, Graham was appointed head of the Fine Arts Department at Tennessee State College in Nashville. Disheartened by the lack of facilities at the school, she importuned W. E. B. Du Bois for assistance. He replied that she had students and she had

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

brains, and that was all she needed. Shortly afterward, as she was on the verge of accepting a position at Talladega College in Alabama, she heard that the Federal Theatre Project in Chicago was about to disband because of lack of interest. She vigorously opposed the decision, and as a result she was invited by Hallie Flanagan, the director of the Federal Theatre of America, to take it over. In the following years, Graham designed, wrote, and compose musical scores; organized classes; and administered a lively program of musical dramas at the Princess Theatre. Notable among her FTP Chicago successes were the productions of Theodore Ward's Big White Fog; Mississippi Rainbow, a family comedy; Little Black Sambo, a children's play by Charlotte Chopenning with music by Shirley Graham, which people lined up around the block to see at the roomier Great Northern Theatre where the troupe had moved; and a syncopated version of Gilbert and Sullivan, The Swing Mikado. Paradoxically, its great success was suicidal for the Federal Theatre. Broadway's Mike Todd imitated the Chicago idea and opened The Hot Mikado with the great Bojangles Robinson across the street. In an article entitled "Towards an American Theatre," Graham lauded the FTP and its potential importance to music and drama departments at black colleges: "I do not exaggerate when I say the Federal Theatre offers places to every trained and experienced Negro director, actor, playwright and designer in America. Here is such an opportunity as has never before come our way. . . . We are a race of artists, What are we doing about it?" For her part, Graham decided to sharpen and expand her talents at Yale University on a Rosenwald Fellowship in creative writing. She moved away from musicals toward playwriting, and between 1938 and 1940 wrote five plays: Dust to Earth (a three-act tragedy about black coal miners produced at Karama Playhouse); / Gotta Home (a one-act first performed at Oberlin by the Gilpin Players); It's Morning (about a mother whose daughter is being sold into slavery, pro-

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duced at Yale in 1940 and directed by Otto Preminger, then studying there); Track Thirteen (a radio play about train porters and their superstititions, produced at Yale over WICC Radio and published in Yale Radio Plays: The Listener's Theatre (Boston: Expression Company, 1940); and Elijah's Raven (a comedy produced in 1941 by the Gilpin Players and the Florida A&M Players). Graham also wrote the music for and danced in a play called The Garden of Time by a classmate, Owen Dodson. Graham hoped that Broadway would call her, but in the uncertain atmosphere of prewar New York, no producer was prepared to mount even a proven success like Tom-Tom, though there was talk about it. From 1940 to 1941, Graham directed a threater group at the YWCA in Indianapolis and assumed similar duties with the USO at Fort Huachuca in Arizona. Because she protested against the racial discrimination at the camp, she was accused of "rabble rousing" and dismissed from her position in 1942. She next joined the NAACP in New York as a field secretary and became increasingly involved with civil rights issues. She also began writing biographies of black heroes, such as Phyllis Wheatley, Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Booker T. Washington, and Benjamin Banneker. The book that brought her international notice was Paul Robeson: Citizen of the World, published in many languages. She also wrote about Gamal Abdul Nasser, the Egyptian leader of the 1960s, and completed a protest novel set in South Africa called Zulu Heart She later became the founding editor of

Freedomways magazine.

Graham's professional career changed direction when she married W. E. B. Du Bois in 1951. When he was indicated for his role in the world-peace movement, Graham identified herself fully with her husband's cause, accompanying him to Ghana, where she was active in television; and after his death in 1963, she devoted herself to pursuing Du Bois's vision of an international community free of racism, classism, and sexism. She was writing a book about the women of

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

China under Mao, whom she regarded as the most liberated in the world, when she died on March 27, 1977, in Peking. To date, only three of Graham's plays and one of her musical compositions have seen publication. Writing about this neglect that her works suffer, Kathy Perkins says in "The Unknown Career of Shirley Graham" {Freedomways, 1985), "Few Blacks have succeeded simultaneously as a writer, composer, conductor and director. To achieve success in just one of these areas would have been noteworthy for a black woman during Graham's time. . . . To have achieved in all of these areas deserves acclaim and appreciation." Though Tom-Tom achieves its maximum effect in performance, a reading of it lends support to Perkins's words. Tom-Tom is the first black opera to be performed on a large scale and with a professional cast. (Harry Freeman had produced his opera Voo-Doo at the Palm Garden four years earlier in New York, and his opera Vendetta would debut at the Lafayette Theatre.) Tom-Tom premiered in June 1932 at Municipal Stadium in Cleveland, on a huge three-dimensional stage before an audience of ten thousand people and with an all-black cast of five hundred people drawn chiefly from local choirs, directed by Ernst Lert and Laurence Higgins. For this extravaganza featuring ballet, choruses, pantomimes on stage, and authentic jungle scenes created under the advisement of native Africans, the libretto is more than just a story in music form. It is an epic, a dramatic history of how black people survived two centuries of oppression in the New World. Though it has some weaknesses, it brings to life the essentials of their character and their lives on the plantation through the presence of five major characters who change identity through the three acts. In the first act, a witch doctor in the African jungle becomes a plantation voodoo man in Act II, emerging in the final act in Harlem as the Garvey-like leader of a back-to-Africa movement; and a tribal chief in the first act becomes a plantation preacher in the second. Even though it had only two performances, the op-

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era received a great deal of attention in Cleveland. Herbert Elwell wrote in the Plain Dealer, "To say that this epic of Negro life and Negro music is an impressive spectacle is to pay it only a mild tribute. . . . The work inspires a world of sympathy for the basic idea and a tremendous respect for the intense sincerity of the author's intentions." Kathy Perkins points out that Tom-Tom paved the way for a series of popular black musicals and dance concerts based on African themes, ranging from Voo-Doo MacBeth, Haiti, a Federal Theatre project by a white man, to an operatic version of The Emperor Jones, all calculated to reinforce the general belief that black people were "exotic" and "primitive," gifted with "natural rhythm." It might be added that more sophisticated musical dramas such as X, The Life and Times of Malcolm X by Anthony Thulani and Christopher Davis and Gospel at Colonus mark the proud culmination of the tradition initiated by Tom-Tom.

References Blackburn, H.B. "Born Storyteller." Negro Digest 8 (September 1950): 13-15. Chrisman, Robert. "The Black Scholar Hosts Shirley Graham Du Bois." Black Scholar 2 (December 1970): 150-52. Cleveland Plain Dealer. July 1, 1932, p. 7 (Society). "Conversation: Ida Lewis and Shirley Graham Du Bois." Essence 1 (January 1971): 22-27. "Shirley Graham." Current Biography (1946): 221-22. W. E. B. Du Bois Manuscript Collection. Library of Congress. Graham, Shirley. "Towards an American Theatre." Arts Quarterly (October-December 1937): 18-20. Perkins, Kathy A. "It's Morning," "I've Gotta Home." Black Female Playwrights: An Anthology of Plays before 1950. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989,

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

"The Unknown Career of Shirley Graham." Freedomways 25, no. 1 (1985): 6-17. Program for Tom-Tom. June 30, 1932. Shockley, Ann A., and Sue Chandler. Living Black American Authors: A Biographical Dictionary. New York: R. R. Bowker, 1973, p. 59. Transcript of interview with Shirley Graham. HatchBillops Archive, June 28, 1975.

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1 Tom-Tom Shirley Graham ORIGINAL SHORT CAST, JUNE 3 0 JULY 3 , 1932 VOODOO MAN: Jules Bledsoe THE MOTHER: Charlotte Murray

THE BOY: Luther King THE GIRL: Lillian Cowan THE MAMMT: Hazel Walker

THE LEADER, THE PREACHER, THE CAPTAIN: AugUS-

tus Grist

AND EXTRAS

ACT I Scene 1 Africa. Darkness. In the darkness is heard the beating of a tom-tom. A distinct signal is given. From the opposite direction comes the answer. Now, faster, the answers come from all sides. Suddenly the air is shattered by the loud trumpeting of an elephant. The soft moonlight reveals the African jungle and the hunters slipping through the trees. Again the elephant is heard and through the trees he comes 238

Originally published privately, 1932.

TOM-TOM 2 3 9

crashing. A shoUt goes up from the hunters. Their spears flash through the air. The hunt is on. Cries are heard. Finally the elephant is brought down. In the darkness may be heard the cries of triumph.

Scene 2 (The LEADER and BOY are discovered outside the village. The great clearing in the center of the village.) LEADER:

Listen to the distant tom-toms, Answer quickly when they call you. Beat more loudly on your tom-tom Tell us if there's danger near. Like a panther, eyes ablazing. Guard the village. Mighty black men, strong and war-like, Sneak upon us through the darkness. Seize our women! Seize our children, Seize our young men, all our best men. Slaves they make us! Far away from home they take us. Listen to the distant tom-toms, Answer quickly when they call you. Beat more loudly on your tom-tom Tell us if there's danger near. (Exit. The BOY answers the signals)

Scene 3 (The great clearing in the center of the village. The tribe has gathered to celebrate the great hunt. Around the huge tom-tom are seated men, women, and children. They are singing) CHORUS:

Ba bo le ka ko no me, Ba bo le ka ko no me.

24O

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Ba bo le ka ko no me, Ba bo le ka ko no me. (The melody is repeated over and over. First the men and then the women. A high whistling note from the men heightening the aspect of frenzy. Into this scene steps a man carrying a trumpet. He blows a long note upon it. The people Jail upon their faces. Enter the VOODOO MAN)

Ya-hoo CHORUS: Hoo-ya

VOODOO MAN:

VOODOO MAN:

Low—Clouds hang low. Slipping, sliding, slow like serpents, Danger's coming. CHORUS: Ha! VOODOO MAN: Creeping, crashing, killing, crushing Chains they bring us. CHORUS:

Ba Ba Ba Ba

bo bo bo bo

le le le le

ka ka ka ka

ko ko ko ko

no no no no

me, me. me, me.

VOODOO MAN:

All the gods are sleeping, sleeping. All the gods are mad. Call them! Rouse them! Wake them, shake them. Cry aloud. CHORUS:

Ba bo Ba bo Ba bo Ba bo

le le le le

ka ka ka ka

ko ko ko ko

no no no no

me, me. me, me.

Blood! Blood! CHORUS: Blood!

VOODOO MAN:

TOM-TOM 2 4 1 VOODOO MAN:

Sacrifice then to them, Blood the gods await! CHORUS:

Blood! Ung! Blood! Throw yourselves before them. Slay and make them glad! CHORUS:

Slay and make them glad! Slay and make them glad! Hee! Slay! Slay! Slay! (The VOODOO MAN strikes upon the tom-tom. The wail stops and to the slow beating of the drums he begins to dance. The men join him. After an interval the girls enter and begin to dance by themselves. The VOODOO MAN stops dancing and begins to watch. He will choose the victim for the sacrifice. One GIRL stands out among the dancers. Her body flows to the beating of the drums. The VOODOO MAN follows her. He strikes upon his tom-tom. The dancers stop, waiting. Slowly the VOODOO MAN raises his stick and points to the GIRL) VOODOO MAN:

Behold our offering to the gods!

(In the crowd the MOTHER screams. All the people gather around GIRL, make obeisance to her. The MOTHER sees, at first with agony. Then her head lifts with pride.) MOTHER:

Happy is my fate, My child is exalted. Chosen by the gods, She rules like a queen. Pure as the water, Fresh from the hilltop. Straight as the tree That grows on its bank. Come let us go,

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Out in the moonlight by the waterfall The bride will prepare. Weep not for her. The gods they be happy. Weep for yourselves, Who know not such joy. (The men have withdrawn leaving the women and girls alone with the VOODOO MAN) (Purification Ceremony: The the idol and calls) VOODOO MAN:

VOODOO MAN stands

before

Draw near. Prepare for the gods.

(Accompanied by her MOTHER and other girls, the GIRL approaches. She is dumb with fright. With a sharp stone, the VOODOO MAN cuts hair from her body. He places it in a hollowed stone and pours over it oil. A coal of fire is placed in the stone and the smoking offering is set before the idol. The VOODOO MAN sways and chants.) VOODOO MAN:

Klic ko wa mo gung lo, Twa mo koo. Klic ko wa mo gung lo, Twa mo koo, Twa mo koo, Twa mo koo. (A long note acclaims the assent of the gods.) VOODOO MAN:

The god accepts his bride.

GIRLS:

Lee ra-a ra-ra-ra-ra Lee ra-ra-ra-ra Lee ra-ra-ra-ra Lee—ra ra ra. VOODOO MAN: GO!

Sacred to the gods.

GIRLS:

Loom twan a he ge na nee na Loom twa ne he Hoo shel—loo

TOM-TOM 2 4 3

Zin see zhu ne Loom twan a he ge na nee na Loom twa na he Hoo shel—loo Zin see zhu ne. Lee ra-a ra—ra-ra-ra Lee ra-ra-ra-ra Lee ra-ra-ra-ra Lee ra-ra-ra-ra Lee-ra-ra-ra. (The GIRL accompanied by her MOTHER and girls goes down through the woods)

Scene 4 (The river bank, beside the waterfall The sacred spot for the preparation of the victim for sacrifice) GIRL: I'm afraid! I'm afraid! MOTHER:

Be not afraid, the gods they call. Sacred thou art. No man may look upon thee. Here in the moonlight we prepare. Thus saith the gods. (The girls stretch their hands over the water and sing a low chant They walk into the water leading the victim. She is given the bath of purification. Now, her Jears forgotten, she begins a chant of exaltation. The MOTHER hurries the other girls up the bank and into the bush. The GIRL is left alone, near the bank, half in the water. She listens to the distant tom-toms. Upon the ledge above the BOY has crept; now he begins to play upon his horn. The GIRL gives a start. She sees him) GIRL:

(softly) Go away.

(Again the melody) GIRL: It means death! (The BOY jumps down beside her)

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM BOY:

Black Girl! Black Girl! Bathing in the bright moonlight. You are so beautiful, I never saw such beauty. You are so beautiful! I want you in my arms. GIRL:

Go away quickly. I am the bride of the gods! BOY:

No! Not you! You must not die! You must not die! You have never lived. You! Beautiful as the night, Soft fragrant night. Pulsing, throbbing like a beating drum. Waiting for me, Waiting for me, Waiting for me. You did not know t'was not to meet the gods, You sought this spot, But to meet me, but to meet me! GIRL:

Why did you come! Woe is me. Bride of the gods, I cannot live. I want to live, I want to live! BOY: Yes, you must live! GIRL:

I dare not disobey the gods. It is too late! BOY:

Never too late while your breath is hot, While your eyes do shine like stars.

TOM-TOM 2 4 5 GIRL: I want to live! BOY: YOU are mine!

(He seizes her in his arms, VOODOO MAN enters) VOODOO MAN:

Hunga!

GIRL: Ah!

(grasping BOYJ Ka-Wun ga! Woe to thee, rebellious one! Thou hast broken the ancient taboo. Thou has polluted the sacred victim. Thou shalt die! VOODOO MAN:

(GIRL throws herself at the VOODOO MAN'S feet with a scream. He tosses her aside. The MOTHER enters) MOTHER:

Nana! Nana!

VOODOO MAN:

Take her away quickly. It is time for the sacrifice. (A Jew men rush in) GIRL: DO

not kill him, do not kill him. I will go.

(She goes slowly away with her mother. The VOODOO MAN hands BOY over to the men) BOY: (struggling) Cruel are the gods! Cruel and heartless! VOODOO MAN:

Mighty are the gods! Mighty and powerful. I go to prepare the sacrifice. BOY: Cruel are the gods! Mighty are the gods! BOY: (being dragged away) Cruel are the gods! Cruel and heartless. VOODOO MAN:

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Scene 5 (The tribe is seen gathering for the sacrifice. The tom-toms are beating. The MOTHER is adorning the GIRL. The GIRL weeps helplessly. Now the procession is formed. The warriors lead, their spears and knives flashing in the first faint tinge of the dawn) CHORUS:

Lo ko ku ti ga, Lo ko ku ti ga, U be we gu ba no ni a yi, Lo ko ku ti ga, Lo ko ku ti ga, Ka yi ka ma nu du, U be we nu bane. (Now come the women. Their voices join the men's. The great idol, borne by several men, is followed by the VOODOO MAN and the GIRL. The drums beat, the trumpets blow, the melody rises andfalls. Up the hill they go. At the top the idol is set down and the VOODOO MAN approaches. The trumpet sounds) VOODOO MAN:

Nko si ke leh lah ee Africa. Mavoo lander oo la ya mar too O bay oo na le do, Ya martoo O day O see keh leh leh. (The GIRL steps forward. The stone is raised. Suddenly, cutting across the tense waiting of the crowd comes the shrill, terrible war-cry of the Bantu and a long arrow falls upon the ground beside the idol. Instantly confusion reigns. From all sides come the Bantu slave hunters. Up and down the hill through the jungles the battle wages. The BOY is seen bound, struggling to free himself. Upon him the VOODOO MAN rushes) VOODOO MAN: Sin! Sin! Your sin has brought the slave hunters upon us!

1

TOM-TOM 2 4 7

(His sharp stone is raised, but two Bantu spring out of the bush and seize him. Together the VOODOO MAN and the BOY are dragged away)

Scene 6 (The drums are silent The slave caravan is being formed. A low, mournful song is heard. There are no words, only a melody pressed from their hearts. From far away comes the call of the tom-tom. The BOY strains in his chains) BOY: I must answer. I must warn them. (He is struck down. The VOODOO MAN looks about stealthily. Suddenly he breaks away, knocking down the Bantu. He runs for the huge tom-tom in the clearing. Two hunters are after him but he reaches the drum. Quickly he sounds his warning. Before he can repeat he is struck down by the club of the hunters. He falls across the drum. Again the mournful song can be heard, butfar away the tom-toms are sending their warning news to the surrounding country. (End of Act I)

ACT II

Scene 1 (America. Only moving, writhing shapes may be dimly discerned in the darkness. Waves of anguished moans rise andfall. The clanking of chains, the lash of the whip. Horror in the darkness! The voice of the BOT:

Darkness! Darkness! Is there no light for us in all the world? Great are the terrors of darkness, Each heart alone in despair.

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

No light to guide, No hand to lead. Crushed with the fear of the dark! Give us light! Give us light! Give us light! (From Jar away may be heard the strains of a hymn. Now a dim light is appearing at the top of the pinnacle and in that light is the figure of the old Negro PREACHER He is looking back toward the music. The half-naked slaves below stand motionless, wondering. In a strong exhorting voice the PREACHER speaks) Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel? Den why not every man? He delivad Daniel from da lions' den, An Jonah from da belly ob da whale: De Hebrew chillin from da fiary furnace, Den why not every man? Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel? Den why not every man? (Above the hum of the other slaves soars the voice of the BOYJ BOY:

I wan Jesus to walk with me, I wan Jesus to walk with me, All along mah heavenly journey I wan Jesus to walk with me. CHORUS:

In mah sorrow, walk wid me In mah sorrow, walk wid me, When mah heart widin am breakin' I wan Jesus to walk wid me. (The VOODOO MAN is seen drawn apart. He alone hears

TOMTOM

the Jaint beating of a tom-tom. Lifting his shackled hands he speaks) VOODOO MAN:

Fire! Light! River! Where are thy gods? Where are thy gods? Where are thy gods? Great god of the tom-tom To do thy bidding All the other gods do run, What is this light? What is this light so calm So peaceful and so still? Not for me! Tom-toms beating somewhere in the vastness of the jungle, Never ceasing, like the beating of my aching heart. I am thy priest, Fashioned to serve thee. No other gods will I hear. BOY: Somebody's knocking at your door. VOODOO MAN: I want no new gods! BOY: Somebody's knocking at your door. VOODOO MAN: I want no new gods! BOY: Oh! sinner, why don't you answer? VOODOO MAN: Oh! homeland ever do you call me. BOY: Somebody's knocking at your door. VOODOO MAN:

No other gods will I hear. No other gods will I hear.

Scene 2 (Corner of a great plantation. In the distance stretch the fields of cotton. To one side the black trees of the swamp. The long rays of the setting sun fall across

249

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

the field. All the activity of the plantation is in full sway to the rhythm of a song) WOMAN:

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, A long ways from home. (The GIRL enters) WOMAN:

True believer, true believer, A long ways from home. (The GIRL begins to sing with the WOMAN. It is a new song. The words have not yet come, but the melody weaves in and out with that of the WOMAN. The slaves are coming in from the field) WOMAN: (with CHORUS] Sometimes I feel like my work's most done, Sometimes I feel like my work's most done, Sometimes I feel like my work's most done, A long ways from home.

(Enter the BOY with his banjo. The song goes on but he adds a new melody) BOY:

Soon it will be moonlight, Moonlight in da trees Come mah honey, gal, Come to me. WOMAN: (rising and stamping her foot) Stop dis foolishment, Puttin' all dem turns an twisins in da Lawd's song. (BOY teases her with his banjo) WOMAN: Lazy

calf!

CHORUS: Ha! Ha! Ha!

MAN: Hit's do God's truf! GIRL: N O !

TOM-TOM 2 5 1

IN: Dat S all yo tink a b o u t . . . BOY: Lobin' an singin' in da moonlight! WOMAN: YO gal, wha's yo mammy? MAN: Don' tell her! GIRL: YO gonna tell her? WOMAN:

Sho!

MAN: AW!

Mammy says ah mustn't dance. MAN: Dancin' ain't sin. GIRL: Mammy says ah mustn't lob. GOOD GIRL: De angel's dance. GIRL: Dat de debbils gonna get mah dancin' feet. WOMAN: Am yo all angels? MAN: NO Suh! GIRL:

CHORUS: Ha! Ha!

Ha!

BOY:

'Fore massa John went to war We usta sing an dance. OLD WOMAN: Poor massa John. CHORUS: Da

War

OLD MAN:

War's a long time. Dey say da gonna set us free. GIRL: I'll run away. WOMAN: YO shut up! BOY: Up north dar is big cities! CHORUS: Up north dar is big cities! WOMAN: Whar you'll starve! MEN: Whar we'll work. GIRLS: Whar we'll dance! BOY: An we'll sing! WOMAN: De debbils gonna get yo sho. (Exit

WOMAN J

BOY: I'm so glad da debbil can't do me no harm. CHORUS: (Joins BOYJ

252

SHIRLEY GRAHAM I'm so glad da debbil can't do me no harm. Oh! my Lawd. Oh! my Lawd, What would I do? (WOMAN slams

something against door)

CHORUS: Ha! Ha!

Ha!

Oh! Walk togedder chillin'. CHORUS: Don yo get weary. GIRL: Walk togedder chillin'. CHORUS: Don yo get weary. GIRL: Walk togedder chillin'

GIRL:

CHORUS:

Dar's a great camp meetin' in da promise Ian'. Clap yo' han's, chillin'. GIRL: Don yo get weary. CHORUS: Clap yo' han's, chillin'. GIRL: Don' yo get weary. CHORUS: Clap yo' han's, chillin'. Dar's a great camp meetin' in da promise' Ian'. GIRL:

Gonna to sing and neva' tiyah, Sing an' neva tiyah, Sing an' neva tiyah, (The

VOODOO MAN

appears)

CHORUS:

Dar's a great camp meeting' in da promise' Ian' Oh! Jesus am a-comin'. Don yo g e t . . . VOODOO MAN: Ha! Ha!

Ha!

1ST CHORUS WOMAN: It's bad

Sam!

MAN: Dey say he Voodoo Man! CHILD: Ya!

Hush! (throwing down log) An so yo sing, far away from home, An so yo dance, forgettin' all dat's pas. WOMAN:

VOODOO MAN:

TOM-TOM 2 5 3

Slaves singin', slaves dancin'. Dance! Dance in chains! (He stoops and strips the chains from the log) Ha! Then dance, dance, dance Slaves, dance! Shake yo chains, Oh! Da music's sweet An da crackin' ob da whip Will make yo leap! Dance! Slaves! Dance! (With wild abandon he dances a dance of the jungles. He stops and speaks) Dancin' for slaves! But if you'd be free To da swamps we'll go Dan we can plan While do sun is low. (Several young men start toward him. From out the crowd sweeps the MOTHER^ MOTHER: No!

Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Didn't mah Lawd deliva Daniel? Den why won't He deliva me? We ain't got no cause to worry, We ain't got no cause to fret, If da road am long If da road am rocky Wait on da Lawd, little chillin' Wait on da Lawd. GIRL: What is it, Mammy? VOODOO MAN: YO dare not wait! CHORUS WOMEN: De Lawd will free us! VOODOO MAN: De time has come! MEN: Dey fight fo us. VOODOO MAN: Befo' annodda day will come you'll moan.

254

SHIRLEY GRAHAM MOTHER:

I not scared ob yo an yo voodoo. Da Lawd will protect me an' mah chil. VOODOO MAN: Dey's sold her! CHORUS: Ah! No! VOODOO MAN:

Las night I heerd em talkin', Old massa an' da man from down da ribba. MOTHER: NO! NO! Oh Jesus, No! CHORUS: Help us. Good Lawd. Lawdy! VOODOO MAN:

At dinnah she brung him de roast An he smiled at her, didn't he? GIRL: Yes.

BOY: I'll kill him! VOODOO MAN: Den she brung him puddin' an he whispered to her. Didn't he? GIRL: Yes.

BOY: We'll run away! cain't go nowha by yo self! (turning to young men) Now will yo go? VOODOO MAN: YO TOUNG MEN: Yes! (MOTHER falls on her knees. A moan of anguish joins her from the other slaves) MOTHER:

Lawd! Lawd! No hidin' place, No hidin' place, No hidin' place 'cept one. No hidin' place, No hidin' place, No hidin' place 'cept one. BOY:

Come on! Come on! My knife is ready. MOTHER: YO knife! BOY: Yes, we know what we will do.

TOM-TOM MOTHER:

Be still! She's not goin\ Come, my child. No hidin' place, No hidin' place, Dar's no hidin' place 'cept one.

(She brings her girl away) BOY: Shell kill her! VOODOO MAN:

We gotta all go We gotta make a drum We gotta call all da people We gotta tell 'em We must fight!

(He stops backstage, his chains raised. Out from the wings comes a long, black whip which curls about his shoulders with a crack. He does not flinch but hurls the chains with all his force. A body falls) WOMAN: He

done kilt de obah-seeah! CHORUS: Lawd!

VOODOO MAN:

Yo gotta call all da people, We gotta tell em We must fight!

(He dashes across the fields toward the swamps)

Scene 3 (A glen on the plantation. The same night toward dawn. The lightfirst discovers the MOTHER sharpening a huge knife. On the grass beside her sits the GIRL) MOTHER:

Sharp da sword, my Lawd Sharp da sword to save da soul. (Slaves are discovered huddled in groups)

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256

SHIRLEY GRAHAM CHORUS:

Save me, O Lawd Save me From sinkin' Sinkin' down. (Sound of bloodhounds in the distance) MOTHER: What

dat? GIRL: Hit's da bloodhounds! 1ST MAN: Da bloodhounds. 2ND MAN: Lookin' fo da man who kilt. (Bloodhounds

nearer)

GIRL: Mammy,

I'se scait!

MOTHER:

When da sun comes on de hill top, Yo gwinna be safe. CHORUS: Save me from sinkin' down. GIRL: Mammy, wha yo sharpen da knife? MOTHER: Da sharpa' de edge, da lessa' da pain. GIRL:

Mammy, what yo' talkin' bout? Yo' look so strange. MOTHER:

I see da Lawd, He's just above de stars And we need not be afraid. GIRL:

Mammy, I'se so sleepy. So tiyad an sleepy. MOTHER: Hush, an take yo rest. (Barking of bloodhounds

nearer)

MAN: Dey pass da bridge! WOMAN: Here comes Uncle Ben! 1ST MAN: Hurry! 2ND MAN: Dey stop him! VOICE OF PREACHER:

Yo' don' wan' nobody hyar, Boss. Dey ain't done not'in.

TOM-TOM (Sound of whip) Oh! Dey knock him down. MOTHER: (oblivious to her surroundings) . . . Peace in dat lan\ Dar is peace in dat Ian'. Whar' yo' bound. CHORUS:

(Bloodhounds going away) He getting' up. MOTHER: (continuing) Dar is peace in dat Ian' Dar is peace in dat Ian' Dar is peace in dat Ian' Whar' yo' bound. WOMAN: Hyar he come! CHORUS: Lawd! WOMAN:

(Enter

PREACHER.

Approaches

MOTHERJ

MOTHER:

Oh! dar's peace in dat Ian' Yes, dar's peace in dat Ian' Dar is peace in dat Ian' Whar's you' bound. (PREACHER

sees knife. He gives a start)

Thou shalt not kill! Thus saith the Lawd; I will repay. Thou shalt not kill. Thus saith the Lawd, I will repay. I know, I know that I will burn in hell. I know, I know that my flesh it will smoke an' my bones broke in pieces, An I a sinner die! But da soul ob mah chil' will be safe wid my Jesus.

257

258

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Safe in da bosom ob da lam\ Yes, da soul ob my chil' will be safe wid my Jesus, Safe in da bosom ob da lam\ Thou shalt not kill. Thus saith the Lawd. Trust in His word. MOTHER:

But what of her life of grief and pain Rottin' in chains ob sin? But not her sin, Her heart is pure. MOTHER:

But she am young She dance and sing all day Maybe she like da life ob sin. PREACHER:

Thou shalt not kill. Thus saith the Lawd, I will repay. MOTHER:

But da soul ob my chil' will be safe with my Jesus, Safe in da bosom ob da lam. (Sound of a beating.) 1ST MAN: Listen! 2ND MAN: What's dat? 3RD MAN: It's da Voodoo Man beating his drum. (Exit three men) When da sun comes over da hill top. Safe in da bosom ob da lam'. MOTHER: When da sun comes over da hill top. CHORUS: Safe in da bosom ob da lam'. MOTHER: When da sun comes, sun comes . . . CHORUS: Safe in da bosom ob da lam'. MOTHER: CHORUS:

TOM-TOM 2 5 9

:: (falling on his knees)

Oh Lawd! My Lawd,

Away up yondar Sittin' on yo great white throne, Whita den de clouds Whita den de snow, Away up yondar Hyar our prayer. 1 S T CHORUS: Yes, Lawd! PREACHER: (continuing) We been prayin' so long, We been singin' so long, We been waitin', waitin' on de Lawd. CHORUS: Waitin', waitin'. PREACHER: Great God on yo shinin' throne. 1ST CHORUS: Blessed Jesus! ft: Hyar our prayer, hyar our prayer. 2ND CHORUS: Praise de Lawd. CHORUS: Hyar, Lawd, Hyar little Jesus. WOMAN: De sun am rising! t: De time has come!

(The

MOTHER

raises knife above sleeping

GIRL.

The

slaves gasp and shrink. One moment she hesitates. In that moment is heard the rapid beating of a military drum, the march of many feet a bugle call, andjrom over the hills comes the strains of "John Brown's Body." Down comes the BOY waving his arms, screaming) BOY:

It's freedom! It's freedom! We'er free! We'er free! PREACHER:

De Lawd has hyard our prayer. Mother, your chil is safe. We'er free! MOTHER:

Free?—Free? T a n k God! Oh! T'ank God! GIRL: (waking) What is it, Mammy? I been sleepin.

1 26O

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

We'er free! My chil! We'er free! Free? Free? Den I can go whar I wan' to? PREACHER: Free at las! Glory! Tank yo, Lawd! MOTHER: GIRL:

CHORUS:

Free at las, Free at las, Tank God almighty we're free at las. Oh! Free at las, Free at las, Tank God almighty we're free at las. MOTHER: Praise His name. GIRL: Hallelujah. / PREACHER: Tank yo, Lawd. ( (The CHORUS rises and swells. The whole world sings) Free at las, free at las. Free at las, free at las. Tank da Lawd we'er Free.

Scene 4 (Within the swamps. side) VOODOO MAN:

The VOODOO MAN stands to one

I can't go! I can't go!

(The GIRL can be seen running down through the glen) GIRL:

No more cotton fields for me, No more, no more. I am happy, I am free Evermore, evermore. CHORUS:

Free at las, free at las, Tank God Almighty I'm free at las, Free at las, free at las, Tank God Almighty I'm free at las, GIRL:

Come with me. The world it is so beautiful! Come with me.

TOM-TOM 2 6 1 (BOY joins

GIRL)

Jes see dat sun, see how he run Oh, tell him, see how he run, We gonna swing along, Wid a song. Heels up high to kick da sky, We gonna dance an sing, We gonna dance an sing. (MOTHER,

in distance,

calls)

MOTHER: My child, where are you going. BOY: TO the city, where well live! GIRL: Mammy! HOT: Come! BOT AND GIRL:

We gonna swing along Wid a song Heels up high to kick da sky, We gonna dance and sing. We gonna dance and sing. (Exit) MOTHER: They'er

gone!

VOODOO MAN:

No! No! Not that! Not that! You are free! You are free! You are free! Free to breathe like men. Free to work like men. To roam the earth, to sail the seas. To sail the seas . . . I can't go. I can't go. I am a murderer. Fool! Bound in the shackles I myself have forged, Sunk in a grave that I myself have dug! Drums! Jungles! DISTANT VOICE: Wonda' what dey doin' in Africa. VOODOO MAN:

Homeland. Riverland. Waiting for her children to come back to her,

262

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Brooding like a wounded beast that's deadly, Torn and twisted by the greedy jaws! We have been less than the beast that roam the jungles, Less than the sands, less than the crawling worms! For they can feel the sun And swim the rivers, The rivers we forget so far away. DISTANT VOICE: I'm goin' up de Mississippi. VOODOO MAN:

No! I will not die! No! No! The gods of Africa will help me. They were old when the earth was young, And now in my sorrow I feel their breath And I hear the beating of drums. They are calling me back to the jungles, To the jungles thick and dark, And the voice that roars in the jungles Is the voice of a god who is mad, He speaks and the trees bow before him, He speaks and the rivers do run, Those rivers that laugh as they roll along Those rivers that curse as they tear! For they know all the secrets of ages, And they've seen all the mysteries of time. Yes! I will live. I will answer your call! CHORUS: T'ank God Almighty we'er free at las. (End oJAct II)

ACT III Scene 1 (Harlem of today. The scene opens upon a babble of many voices. A great mass meeting is just about to open. The meeting has not yet been called to order and everyone is talking. One young man calls across the aisle to another.

1

TOM-TOM 2 6 3

1ST MAN: Big Boy, I ask yo once, I ask yo twice. Is yo's or is you not intrusted in this here movement? 2ND MAN: I ain't saying I is and I ain't saying I ain't. I don' know 'nough 'bout it. 1ST MAN: Does you or does you not read the colored papers? For two Saturdays they's been announcing this meeting. Well, I'll tell you. This Man has started a "back to Africa" movement. They say he's a Voodoo Man. SEVERAL PERSONS: A Voodoo Man! 1ST MAN: (importantly) Yessuh, that's what I heard. He has meetings and all he talks about is Africa. But instead of singing and telling fortunes he takes his followers down in a shipyard and they start building a ship! SEVERAL PERSONS: Building a ship! 1ST MAN: Yessuh, right here in these shipyards. I heard about it and when I was laid off las' summer I went down to see "bout getting a job. They hired men all right. Glad to get me. But Boy, I ain't working under no crazy niggers. They work all the time. And this Man, he's all over the place puttin' his nose in every corner. I quit! 2ND MAN: What they figure on doing wid dis ship after they get it built? 3RD MAN: Let me tell you. (in a dramatic whisper) They going to take you back to Africa. 2ND MAN: What you say? (loud laughter) 4TH MAN: Ha! Ha! Ha! The Voodoo Man will get you if you don watch out! 2ND MAN: NO, I ain't intrusted in dis movement. I been trying to get to New York all my life and if I can just get a good job I'm staying here. 4TH MAN: I thought you was from Georgia! (laughter) 2ND MAN: What of it? Georgia's all right. I ain't 'shame' I come from Georgia. 4TH MAN: Keep yo' shirt on, Big Boy, keep yo' shirt on. I ain't saying nothing *bout Georgia. I say it's a swell place to come from! (laughter)

264

SHIRLEY GRAHAM 1ST WOMAN: Well, I come to this meeting 'cause it's my day off and I didn't have nothing else to do, but if you ask me I'd say Africa's a swell place to stay away from. 2ND WOMAN: Ain't it da God's truf. I been hearing t>out these colored men out there building a ship and I thought I'd come to this meeting, but believe me I ain't puttin' a dime in the collection. MAN: YOU wouldn't

(Another group) 1ST MAN: They say this fellow works in the shipyards himself. WOMAN: Works in the shipyards. Heavens! Is he a common laborer? 1ST MAN: He's a shipbuilder by trade. He directs the shifts, but they've never been able to hire enough men, so he works all the time. WOMAN: Who ever heard of a carpenter starting a movement. He must be crazy. CHILD: Mamma, what's a movement? WOMAN: Shut up! SEVERAL PERSONS AT ONCE: Here comes the chairman. Is that the Voodoo Man? Who wants to go back to Africa? Stop the noise! Shh . . . CHAIRMAN: Ladies and gentlemen, we have already announced the purpose of this meeting. The time has come for us to throw open the doors and to give you the opportunity of joining in this great movement. In a few minutes our chief will address you, but now the house is open for discussion. "Africa for Africans" is our slogan, (faint applause) MOTHER: (rising) Brothers and sisters, I see the hand of the Lord in this thing. He's up there in the realms of glory looking down on we poor sinful creatures of the dust. And now he's sending us a chariot of fire to carry us out of this land of sin and iniquity. He sees our trials and tribulations and he knows that we are creatures of the flesh.

TOM-TOM 2 6 5 SEVERAL OLD PEOPLE: Yes, Yes, Lawd. MOTHER: He sees our boys becoming

gamblers and bootleggers and our girls falling into the ways of sin. Evil days have came upon us. And now, I hear a voice in the wilderness crying, "Let my people go." OLD PEOPLE: Yes, Yes. MOTHER: NOW is our time

to leave this wicked place. Our girls will be safer in the jungles of Africa than they are right here on the streets of New York. Let us board this ship of Zion, let us sail across the troubled seas and let us reach our homeland which for us will be a land flowing with milk and honey. OLD PEOPLE: Amen! Amen! (loud applause) MAMMT: I rises to make a statement. I ain't no African. You can go where you want to, but I'm going to stay right here where I have all the comforts of life. I got a good job and I ain't studyin' no jungles. My missionary society is always raising money for the poor heathen. I sends my money, but I ain't anxious to 'sociate with no naked heathen. They eats people. (Boy in back of hall: "You're safe!" Laughter) Have you got lectricity in the jungles? No. Have you got subways and "L's"? No. Have you got movies? SEVERAL BOTS: NO! MAMMT: But you have

crocodiles!

BOTS: YES! MAMMT: When

got plenty lions and tigers and

I wants to see wild animals I'll go to the zoo where they're in cages, but I don't want to meet no lion in the middle of the night. And I wants to take my bath without exposing my person to crocodiles. BOTS: Ou-ou-ou-Naughty crocodiles! MAMMT: I concludes these brief remarks with the statement that I'm goin' to stay right here in New York, where all cultured people belong, (sits amid wild applause) (During the laughter and applause the VOODOO MAN enters and quietly takes a seat on the platform. Few

266

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

people notice his entrance. His face is drawn and tired. His every movement is tense, like a race horse straining to be off) REAL ESTATE MAN: (rising) Folks, you all know me. I'm the real estate man right around the corner on Seventh Avenue. I don't quite get this back to Africa idea, myself. Here we've got paved streets and sewers and modern plumbing. Here we've got railways and subways and street cars and buses. All of these will carry out to our fine improved addition, with carefully laid out lots. Right here in Harlem we have the finest block of land in the world. We have here a city within a city, right here just twenty minutes ride from Times Square. What more could you ask? Can you buy and sell lots in Africa? No, because there are no lots, no sewage, no improvements of any kind. It's nonsense to talk about building up Africa. If you have any money, put it into our fine, new addition over in New Jersey. Here you get values. Leave the jungles to the lions and the snakes and the crocodiles, (laughter and applause) (The VOODOO MAN rises and comes forward. He does not wait for an introduction) VOODOO MAN: Words do not come to me quickly. I cannot speak. I only know the things I feel, the things I see, the things I hear, the things I hear 'way in the middle of the night, beating, beating, beating! For many months we have been working. We have built a ship. It is finished! None but black hands have touched a single rivet, none but black hands have laid a single plank. We have had little money. We could not always buy the iron we needed, we could not always hire the men to work, but we ourselves have toiled without ceasing. It is finished! And now this ship will go to Africa. Africa, the land of our fathers and mothers, huge Africa, our heritage and our pride. A land of plains and rivers and of mountains. Yes, there are jungles, stench and foul decay. Yes, there are lions that roam there, wild and free. But in these jungles buried in the muck and mire of ages there are riches greater

TOM-TOM 2 6 7

than your mind can now conceive. You talk of lots a few feet square in Jersey, but out in Africa are rolling plains with soil so rich that a seed there dropped will spring up overnight. And gold lies buried deep and sure, and diamonds waiting for you to come and dig them out. CHORUS: Gold! Diamonds! You heard him! Let's go. What's he say. Listen! VOODOO MAN: Yes, I say gold and diamonds. And there is more, ivory and precious woods. No land upon the face of the earth has so much to offer. And it is ours. It is ours. Shall other men grow rich while we here toil and starve? CHORUS: NO!

Then let us band ourselves together. We need workers. Already this group of noble men and women have taken the badge and consecrated themselves to this cause. Stand up, my sisters and brothers, that all may see you. VOODOO MAN:

(A group of men and women seated near the platform stand. They are wearing the robes of the African Sudan) VOODOO MAN: These are our workers. We need more. These I shall send into the world. They will tell black men everywhere to rise and claim their own. Give them money and yourselves. Well build more ships, and more and more. Well build giant planes. Well sail the seas. Well fly the air—to Africa. Behold this tomtom brought from the interior of Africa. This is our emblem. This the only god well hear.

(He strikes a mighty blow upon the tom-tom. The applause is deafening. The people shout, wave their hands, men throw up their hats, women scream. Amid the turmoil the BOY, a young minister, leaps upon a bench and makes his voice heard) BOY: Stop! Do not listen to him. He blasphemes! (Over the heads of the people they face each other)

268

SHIRLEY GRAHAM VOODOO MAN: The voice of the tom-tom is mighty. It will be heard around the world. BOY: My God is a jealous God. Thou shalt have no other gods before him. VOODOO MAN: This the only god well hear.

(Again he strikes upon the tom-tom. And again the people respond with shouting. Now they surge forward paying no attention to the BOY, who tries to stop them. In the lead is the REAL ESTATE MANJ REAL ESTATE MAN: J u s t a minute folks, a minute. Our brother here just has laid before you the greatest proposition of the ages. I ask you, is there money or not? Is there money or not in diamonds? SHOUT: Yes! REAL ESTATE MAN: Let's do this thing in a businesslike way. You know me, folks, you know me. Right now, I'm buying five thousand shares, here's my check.

(He walks up with a grand gesture and hands the the check. His action is greeted with wild applause)

VOODOO MAN

REAL ESTATE MAN:

That ain't all, folks, that ain't all. Here and now this company starts doing business on a big scale. We're going to all buy stock. Here, somebody give me a table. That's right. Thank you, brother. Right this way, folks, right this way. The Afro-Pan-American Line Stock going now for ten dollars a share, Next week they'll be ten thousand. (The VOODOO MAN makes a gesture of remonstrance but his words are drowned as the people rush toward the table. They are drawing money from their pockets and purses) CHAIRMAN:

Oh! It's wonderful. Now the people will buy.

TOM-TOM 2 6 9

A thousand shares in one day. Soon we will have plenty of money. VOODOO MAN:

I hate this idea of stocks I hate this man with his ends. I only want my people to I only want my people to

and bonds. tongue wagging at both love Africa. go home.

CHAIRMAN:

Yes, of course, you're right. But what difference does it make? We need the money. MOTHER: (approaching) But I do not want stocks and bonds, I love my homeland. I want to help, I want to help. Here is my all.

(She empties her hands upon the tom-tom) VOODOO MAN:

Africa is calling. Her voice will be heard around the world. Thank you, sister. (Several other older people come to the VOODOO MAN, shake his hand and lay their offerings upon the tomtom) REAL ESTATE MAN: This way, folks, this way. That's right. Five shares, ten shares. It's all right, lady, you can buy more tomorrow. I'm afraid that watch isn't worth much, old man.

(To old man who is offering his watch to the

REAL ES-

TATE MAN) MOTHER:

Not there, not there.

(She holds out her hand for it The old man hesitates a moment and then hands it to her. She lays it upon the tom-tom. While this is going on, the MAMMY is seen donning a robe. Now, so clad, she stands close be-

27O

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

side the real estate table. She assists him in a manner which adds to the general confusion. GIRL:

(approaching) My bracelet and fifteen dollars.

(The MOTHER snatches upon the tom-tom)

them away

and lays

them

I want stock! MOTHER: YOU need freedom from temptations. GIRL:

(The group is completely divided. Most of them surround the REAL ESTATE MAN. The others surround the tom-tom near the VOODOO MAN. His voice is heard) VOODOO MAN: For Africa, for Africa.

(The light snaps out. In the darkness

is heard the

voice oj the REAL ESTATE MAN,} REAL ESTATE MAN:

Buy your shares now, folks; Next week they'll be ten thousand.

Scene 2 (Workmen discovered driving piles along a country road. They are singing and working to the rhythm of the song) CHORUS:

Drive Drive Drive Drive

dat dat dat dat

hammer hammer hammer hammer, boy.

ONE WORKER:

I got a gal and she's just right Drive dat hammer, boy. Gwain see her dis very night Drive dat hammer, boy. CHORUS:

Drive Drive Drive Drive

dat dat dat dat

hammer hammer hammer hammer, boy.

TOM-TOM ANOTHER WORKER:

De preacher say dat we must pray, Drive dat hammer, boy. But I got something else to say, Drive dat hammer, boy. CHORUS:

Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer, boy. ANOTHER WORKER:

Ain't no use to sing and shout Drive dat hammer, boy. 'Cause de angels white, dey goin' to kick you out, Drive dat hammer, boy. CHORUS:

Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer, boy. (During the last chorus the coarse horn of a cheap auto sounds and the REAL ESTATE MAN enters with a rush) REAL ESTATE MAN:

That's fine, boys, that's fine, But you don't want to waste your life Driving down a hammer, You've heard about the great steamship company The Afro-Pan-American Line. We gotta few shares left for sale. They're going very cheap, You better buy them while you can Just thirty dollars a share. 1ST MAN: Here's where I buy stocks. REAL ESTATE MAN: Best investment in the world. 2ND MAN: YOU musta knowned dis was pay day! SEVERAL: Ha! Ha! Ha! REAL ESTATE MAN:

Come on, young fellow.

271

1 272

SHIRLEY GRAHAM TOUNG MAN:

I have no money.

REAL ESTATE MAN: Get out of the TOUNG MAN:

me go.

way!

But I thought they needed workers. Let

It's okay with me. TOUNG MAN: [regarding his pile driver) Pile driver, here yo' start to workin' for Africa. Come on, boys, let's go. REAL ESTATE MAN:

(About two-thirds of them leave singing, the leading) I'm gonna way and I won't be back, Drive dat hammer, boy. Ill just stop by and get my hat. Drive dat hammer, boy.

YOUNG MAN

CHORUS:

Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer, boy. Hammer here he big an strong, Drive dat hammer, boy. We'll work together all day long. Drive dat hammer, boy. CHORUS:

Oh! Drive dat hammer, Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer Drive dat hammer, boy. (Darkness)

Sunday Evening in Harlem (Interlude) (Distant chimes. Whir andjlash of automobiles. Taxi horns. Hurrying Jeet. Church bells. Elevated trains. Distant chimes. The BOY is seen hurrying to church. He is stopped by the REAL ESTATE MANJ REAL ESTATE

health?

MAN:

Evening, parson. How's your

TOM-TOM 2 7 3

(BOY answers briefly and starts on) REAL ESTATE MAN:

Just a minute, Reverend. I understand you don't like our African plan. You yourself have bought no stock Nor have many others of your flock. BOY: On every opportunity I warn my people against this damnable scheme. REAL ESTATE MAN:

Don't you think it better to stick to your business of saving souls? You tell 'em *bout the gold paved streets of heaven, 111 tell 'em *bout the gold paved mines of Africa. They're both pretty far away, Ha! Ha! BOY: Good evening, sir. REAL ESTATE MAN:

You're in such a hurry. Wait. You're not like most of these ignorant preachers round here. You have a large church, but it's heavily mortgaged, Your own salary has been cut. Now Reverend, we might do a little business. There's plenty of money in this thing. BOY: I have said good-evening. I must go. REAL ESTATE MAN: So you won't listen. Well, young fellow. Some of us will probably drop in on your evening service. Well be coming to hear about heaven, and white-robed angels and starry crowns, but we won't be expecting to hear anything about steamship companies or diamond mines. You're intelligent. Harlem doesn't have so many bright, upstanding young preachers. It would be a shame for us to lose one. (The roar of an elevated train drowns the BOY'S answer. He passes on. Whir of automobiles. Taxi horns. Hurrying Jeet. Distant chimes)

274

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

Scene 3 (Church) CHOIR SINGING:

Oh! boundless love, Oh! blessed peace, That fills our hearts and mind. In joyful praise we raise our voice And sing of love divine. MOTHER IN CHOIR:

(SOlo)

Were you there when they Crucified my Lord? Were you there when they Crucified my Lord? O! sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, temble, Were you there when they Crucified my Lord? (The BOY enters during this verse and takes his seat His head is bowed) MOTHER:

Were you there when they Nailed Him to the tree? Were you there when they Nailed Him to the tree? O! sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble, Were you there when they Nailed Him to the tree? Were you there when the sun Refused to shine? Were you there when the sun Refused to shine? O! sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble, Were you there when the sun Refused to shine? (During this verse the REAL ESTATE MAN and several workers enter. The BOY stands at his pulpit)

TOM-TOM 2 7 5 BOY:

Hear our prayer. Let not your heart be troubled, Thus saith the Lord. In Him do I put my trust, In Him do I put my trust. What tho my foes gather round me a mighty host, My God will defend His own. The wicked may flourish like a green bay tree, But soon he is cut down. Evil are the days that come upon us. Evil are the leaders that do rise! (REAL ESTATE MAN

terferes)

makes threatening motion, MOTHER in-

BOY:

Harken now to me. Hear me while you may. These men who talk of diamond mines in Africa are cheats and liars! Hear not their words. This is our land and our country, Here we may live in the light. We have left the place of the savage, We would not turn back. Therefore, have nothing to do with this thing of superstition and craft. We are not gamblers. We are the children, the beloved children of a King! (BOY bows his head a moment before leaving pulpit As he walks down the aisle REAL ESTATE MAN blocks his way. For a moment they face each other, the BOY'S head high. The REAL ESTATE MAN steps aside and the BOY passes out) REAL ESTATE MAN: All

ten to me.

right, now, people, you can lis-

276

SHIRLEY GRAHAM don't listen to him. REAL ESTATE MAN: Our stock is nearly gone. This is your last chance to be rich. GROUP: I want shares. No, let's go. Wait a minute. Listen to him. No. MOTHER: NO,

REAL ESTATE MAN:

I heard what your preacher said, I'm not surprised. He wants you to stay here and work for him. MOTHER: Shame! Those who love Africa come with me. This man is not true. Come on, folks, get your stock. (Exit

MOTHER

with several

DEACON: Get

persons)

out of here with your stock selling.

WORKERS: Put us

out.

Last chance to buy. GROUP: Give me ten. Wait a minute. No, no. Get out. I want shares. REAL ESTATE MAN:

(General confusion. Church officers attempt to force workers out) REAL ESTATE MAN: Going very cheap. Just one hundred dollars a share.

(Darkness)

Scene 4 (In the darkness may be seen the flashing of automobile lamps and the whir of the city lies under the music from a cabaret At a subway entrance stands the MOTHER anxiously watching the crowd which hurries by without a glance. From the belching mouth comes the GIRL pushed and jostled by many people) MOTHER: My child! I've been looking for you. You haven't been home for so long. GIRL: Yes, mother. I know, but I've had to work nights.

TOM-TOM 2 7 7 MOTHER:

This life is killing you. You're tired and worn, But now, we're going away. GIRL: Going away! MOTHER:

Yes, we're sailing on that ship that's going to Africa, Therell be interesting work to do. We'll help reclaim the land, We will build a little home, We'll be far from this wicked life of sin. . . . You ain't saying nothing Gal, why don't you say something to me. GIRL: Oh! Mother, I can't go. I'm—I'm—I'm doing very well here. I've got a good job. MOTHER: A job! Singing in that wicked place, (pleading) Oh! Gal, Come with me and let us live, Where there is time to find our God. The past forgot, well be so happy. Come with me. GIRL: Mother, I can't go. I can't go. See, it's late. I must hurry. MOTHER: YOU mean you won't go. Then I will leave you. Maybe if I make a home you'll come. GIRL: Mother! You don't mean you'll go way off to Africa and leave me? MOTHER: Yes, I will go. Maybe you come some day. (MOTHER embraces GIRL. Both

are crying) GIRL: NO! NO! Mother don't leave me. {the striking of a clock is heard) Oh! Ill be late. There's the clock! No, wait. Don't leave me. I haven't time to think. I haven't time to say what I want to say. Wait, wait, Mother! MOTHER: (gently butjirmly drawing away) Goodbye my child, goodbye. I'll make a home. Some day you'll come. Goodbye, (exit) GIRL: Wait!

278

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

(Behind her the door of the cabaret opens. Out comes a burst of music. In the doorway is the MANAGER He is scowling) You're late. GIRL: Yes, Yes. I'm coming.

MANAGER:

(she disappears in a side door)

Scene 5 The Cabaret

(Music! Jungle music. On the cleared floor is a tap dancer. Waiters hurry from table to table. People come and go. When the applause for the dancer has died away the music Jails into a slower rhythm and the spot prepares for the entrance of the GIRL) GIRL:

The folks are waitin' And the music's beatin' low, No hesitatin' in those drums. The world forgotten, The past wiped out, No thoughts for days that may not come. No time to cry, no time to sigh, No time to say good-bye No time to moan, to be alone, The bands playing, folks swayin' No . . . time. No time for flowers, no idle hours No time to sit and think, No time for friends, no days that end With just the sun a-settin' and the sighin' of the wind. No . . . time. They tell me somewhere there are rivers They tell me somewhere there's a moon Maybe you have seen the moonlight shining on the trees,

TOM-TOM 2 7 9

Maybe you have sailed upon the rivers. But I dance! I sing! No time to dream, no time to hope, No time to say good-bye. (At the close of her song she joins a group at one of the tables. Out upon thejloor comes a line of dancers in African costume. They do a native dance. During the applause the MAMMY with several workers enter and immediately begin going from table to table. The orchestra swings into the dance rhythm, couples leave their tables and begin to dance, but above the music may be heard MAMMY'S voice) r: Come on, buy your stock in the Afro-PanAmerican Line. Ship sailing soon. Here's your chance. EXPRESSIONS PROM GROUP: Is this heaven's clearing day? Aunti, ain't you lost? Gl-lo-ry! Are these entertainers? What does that broad want? Gee-lap-pie! Have a dance? MAMMY: GO way from here. I wouldn't set my foot in this hell's hole sept I'm selling shares. I'm here on portant business. WORKER: NOW'S your chance, young folks. This is better than the numbers. Everybody wins. (Dancers gather 'round) DANCERS:

I believe I'll buy some. Sure thing, my number came out last week. I'll try anything now. When does the ship sail? How much are they? MAMMT: Just a minute, just a minute. Stop shoving. GIRL: (coming through the crowd which makes way for her) So it's you. Well, I'm surprised to see you in a nightclub after midnight. MAMMT: Don't connect me up with all the wickedness in this place. I'll have you know I'm a respectable business woman. I'm one of the leaders in this movement.

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

MAN: Says you. GIRL: Are you going to Africa? MAMMY: No-er—I'm selling shares. GIRL: I thought not. Don't pay any attenton to her, boys. Who wants her worthless paper? MAN: But it's shares, Miss. They valuable. GIRL: Paper! Do you see any gold and diamonds on it? Here, show me. Show me! WORKER: Come on, get your shares now. GROUP: Give me two. Hey bo, lend me a ten spot. Think 111 invest. GIRL: Show me, show me. Where is the gold? Where are the diamonds? MAMMY: YOU shut yo' mouth. You ought to be shame' yourself. Living this life of sin and grievin' your po' mother. GIRL: My mother! My mother! Don't you dare mention my mother! You— (With a hysterical cry she throws herself upon the woman. Confusion. Cries. The MANAGER hurries up) MANAGER: (to orchestra) Louder, boys, louder. Miss, Miss. It's time for your song. All right folks, let's get along. Your song, Miss. GIRL: Sure, my song. Come on, boys, play. Dancin' feet! Dancin' feet! No matter what you say When that band begins to play I can't hear you talking Cause my feet say "Hoo-Ya" I got those dancin' feet!

(Tap dancers begin to dance. The old woman is crowded off the floor by the dancers. The music becomes faster. Workers sell stock. Several stop to dance, REAL ESTATE MAN rushes in) REAL ESTATE MAN: That's fine, folks, You're buying stock. Your last chance. Buy now. GIRL: Dancin' feet! Dancin' feet!

(Darkness)

TOM-TOM

Scene 6 (Monday: The feverish activity of the builders Jills the air with sound of rivets of driving nails of hammers. A building is being constructed. Going toward the ship is a train piled high with coal. Down in the mines men are digging. From all these workers comes music) MINERS:

We are diggin', diggin', diggin' coal We are diggin', diggin', diggin', We are diggin', diggin' coal from the ground. MEN ON THE TRAIN:

We are rollin', We are rollin', We are rollin' along, We are rollin', rollin', rollin', We are rollin' to a better land. CARPENTERS:

We're not diggin', we're not rollin' But we're singin' too. Beat little hammer, beat, beat, Beat little hammer, beat. (On the raised platform of the steamship office stands the VOODOO MAN. NOW comes the discordant note of the REAL ESTATE MAN) REAL ESTATE MAN: Buy your shares now, Buy 'em now, the ship is going very soon. VOODOO MAN: That man, that man. His voice is driving me mad. How can I stop him? CHAIRMAN: (with ledger) Oh! You don't want to stop him Just look at our books, The money's coming from everywhere, Our stock is sold twice over. CHORUS: The ship sails soon. Buy your shares now. Give me ten. Give me twenty. There are gold and diamonds in Africa. YOUNG MAN: Listen to them. They're mad! They're greedy! But some of my people want to go. They are coming!

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(From the distance comes a long line of pilgrims. They are going toward the ship. From their lips comes a hum. Some are in rags. A Jew are well dressed. Most of them are old) VOODOO MAN: Those are the people who need me. They have no money for stocks and bonds. They want a home. (Enter the BOYJ

BOY: I have come for one last word with you. You, who have stirred up this horrible frenzy among our people. VOODOO MAN: I have not caused this madness. It brings sorrow to my heart. BOY: It is your scheme. What do you hope to gain? VOODOO MAN: I have not scheme. I only know that Africa needs me and I serve her faithfully as is the duty of her priest. BOY: Priest! Ah! They told me you were a Voodoo Man. You are a Voodoo Man. VOODOO MAN: (proudly) Yes, I am the Voodoo Man. BOY: God be merciful. A heathen priest leading my people to destruction. Here me, Lord. Hear me, people. Oh! Lord, save these blind souls. (Enter the CAPTAIN from the ship) CAPTAIN: Sir, the hold is filled. There's no more room for this last shipment. The entire ship is crowded. CROWD OF PILGRIMS: We want tickets! Give us tickets! VOODOO MAN: There must be room. There must be room for everything and everybody. CAPTAIN: Already the engines are heating. The ship is now too deep in the water. The people continue to bring their possessions. There is no room. VOODOO MAN: Make more room. No one shall be turned away. These people trust me. I must get them away from this madness. (CAPTAIN rushes

out)

1

TOMTOM 2 8 3 Don't leave us. We want tickets. BOY: Stop, people. Listen to me. MOTHER: (entering scene) Don't kill their enthusiasm. I will warn them to be reasonable. PILGRIMS:

(Cries from the stock sellers and from the pilgrims. Confusion and turmoil) (running) They are storming the ship! The boilers are sinking to the water. They will explode! CAPTAIN:

VOODOO MAN:

Oh! Stop them! Stop them! Listen to me! Listen to me! (He picks up phone and begins to talk rapidly) MOTHER: I'm going down to the ship. I will try to quiet the crowd. BOY: NO! There's danger!

(But the MOTHER is gone. In the midst of the cries and confusion of the mob storming the ship may be heard the mad music from the cabaret) CHORUS:

Come on! To the ship!

VOICE OF THE CAPTAIN:

Stay back! Stay back!

(Cries. Screams) CHORUS: Let us on! Let us

on!

(The funnel of the ship is seen staggering. Screams!) CAPTAIN:

Smoke!

The boilers! The boilers!

(With a mighty roar comes the explosion!) VOICE

or THE GIRL: Mother! Mother! Mother!

(The flames reveal the VOODOO MAN standing on his platform above the heads of the crowd. He is mad with grief and despair. Moans. Cries! Darkness) CHORUS: Where is this man who has built this flimsy ship? He has taken our money and grown rich. He has killed our loved ones.

284

SHIRLEY GRAHAM VOICE OP THE GIRL: He has CHORUS: Thief! Murderer!

killed my mother! Traitor to his people! Kill

him! (Light again. The VOODOO MAN sits at his desk waiting. On comes the mob. He stands to meet them. He holds out his hand) VOODOO MAN: Oh!

Why would you not listen. CHORUS: Thief! Murderer!

(Outfrom the crowd springs a cabaret dancer in African costume. He raises his spear and sinks it into the VOODOO MAN'S chest For one instant a startled look crosses the face of the black man. He does not understand. Falling, he speaks) VOODOO MAN: Africa!

(Through the crowd rushes the MOTHERJ GIRL:

(joyfully) Mother!

(But the MOTHER does not heed. She faces the mob) MOTHER: YOU kill him! You! Fools! Blind dumb clods of earth. Sniveling cowards, grinning and fawning as you shirk from work, dancing to the pulling of a string. This man dreamed a dream. What do you know of dreams? This man saw a vision. What do you know of visions? He saw a race of people black and strong. He saw them claiming Africa for their own. He saw the jungles cleared, the marshes dried, the desert blooming forth in flower. He saw this nation rising like an eagle. And now he's failed! And you kill him. Let him alone that he might die in peace.

(The VOODOO MAN has been feebly attempting to beat the tom-tom. Several now rush forward to take the stick, but the BOY steps forward) BOY: Not you. Savages and gamblers. This man was courageous. His faith never failed. I did not understand, but God knows all things.

TOM-TOM 2 8 5 VOODOO MAN: It doesn't matter now, my boy. I've failed, I've failed. Always, through the ages I have failed. BOY: Forgive me. VOODOO MAN: NOW, even my tom-tom will be silent.

(The stick Jails from his hand. The BOY catches it) BOY: NO! Black Man, No! Your tom-tom shall be heard. (He strikes a mighty blow upon the tom-tom) Who will go with me, Not to distant lands, But here, beating the tom-tom Well find kingdoms unknown. (Again he strikes the tom-tom. Out of the crowd steps the GIRLJ GIRL: I will go. BOY: It's the Girl, my Girl. Come with me.

(Close beside her steps the

MOTHERJ

MOTHER:

Talk about a child that do love Jesus Here is one. Talk about a child that do love Jesus Here is one. (The song sweeps out over the crowd. The BOY continues to beat. Two men lift the tom-tom upon their shoulders. Slowly they move forward) BOY:

Talk about a child that's seeking for a Kingdom, Here is one, here is one. Talk about a child that's seeking for a Kingdom, Here is one, here is one. (Now those from the cabaret come, their band playing. Up the hill they start toward the sunrise) CHORUS:

My Lord, what a morning,

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SHIRLEY GRAHAM

My Lord, what a morning, When the sun begins to shine Seeking for a Kingdom, seeking for a Kingdom. (Up, up, up. The tramp of manyjeet, going going, on and on toward the rising sun. The dying VOODOO MAN sees the rising sun. He hears the beating of the tomtom and the tramp qfjeet He smiles) (Curtain)

George A. Towns (1870—1960) On March 5, 1870, George Alexander Towns, son of Luke Towns and Mary Coates Towns, was born in Albany, Georgia. At the age of fourteen, he moved to Atlanta, and, after working a brief time, he enrolled at Atlanta University. In 1894, along with six other men—one of them the poet James Weldon Johnson— Towns received his B.A. degree. He taught for two years and then enrolled at Harvard, where in 1900 he graduated with honors. He returned to his alma mater in Atlanta to teach English; there he married Nellie H. McNair, who bore him four children. Throughout his life, Towns was active in community affairs. He was a charter member and an officer of the first Atlanta chapter of the NAACP and subsequently organized branches in other Georgia cities. In the days when Georgia still had a poll tax, he was active in encouraging black registration and voting. He was a member of the citizens' committee that succeeded in obtaining county teacher training schools, the first publicly supported institutions for Blacks in Georgia. Writing was a natural extension of Towns's social commitment. He composed poetry, some of which W. E. B. Du Bois published in Phylon. In 1944, during World War II, Towns wrote a poem, "On All Fronts":

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GEORGE A. TOWNS Fight, brother, fight! And of all soldiers, be the best! Fight not only for what our country is But for what it may be under God. You wage your flight not merely for the flag that waves, But for an emblem hidden in your hearts. Fight, then, that you may gain a double victory Over the craven foes who face you in the line, and over some as craven left at home.

The war at home against the craven served as the central thesis of Town's play The Sharecropper, a drama in which a black farmer refuses to be bullied by a white landowner. The background for sharecropping dates from the post-Reconstruction period when, in 1877, federal troops were withdrawn from the South. The North's promise to award every black family "forty acres and a mule" for past servitude had not been kept. Nearly all desirable farmland remained in the hands of the whites, who, in order to cultivate crops, instituted a new form of bondage—sharecropping. By this method, the Blacks would do the work and the crops would be shared with the white owner. However, the Blacks had no capital to finance planting, purchase of staples, or distribution of his harvest. The result was that Blacks had to borrow money from the landowners at heavy interest in order to live until the harvest. Then they were forced to sell the fruits of their labor to the landlord at any price that he might wish to pay. Victor Turner, the hero of Towns's drama, refuses to submit to this new slavery. Professor Towns was typical of a number of educators and intellectuals who, although not formally trained in the theater, felt the stage would be a proper vehicle for their personal and social ideals. Reared in a rural, segregated, and poverty-ridden state, Towns found encouragement at Atlanta University, where Mrs. Adrienne McNeil Herndon had established a Department of Elocution and Dramatics. She regularly presented the classics such as Everyman and The Rivals, and she founded the custom of presenting a Shakespearian play by each graduating class. Here,

GEORGE A. TOWNS

Towns was inspired to admire the theater, and he became one of many distinguished names who studied, taught, or worked in Atlanta University dramatics. Others include Anne Cooke Reid, who established the first black summer theater in America; John M. Ross, Owen Dodson; James Butcher; Thomas Pawley; Ella Weaver; Baldwin Burroughs; Ira De A. Reid; Marion Douglas; Mattiwilda Dobbs; Raphael Mclver; and Billie Geter Thomas. For thirty-four years, Towns taught English and coached debate. In his last years, he served as acting president of Fort Valley State College. When he died on December 20, 1960, he had given the Atlanta community and university more than seventy-five years of service. References Bacote, Clarence A. The Story of Atlanta University: A Century of Service. Atlanta: Atlanta University, 1969, pp. 123-29. "George Alexander Towns, 1870-1960." Atlanta University Bulletin (December 1960) :4. "George Alexander Towns Collection." In Guide to Manuscripts and Archives in the Negro Collection of Trevor Arnett Library. Atlanta: Atlanta University, 1971, pp. 20-21. Mather, Frank Lincoln. Who's Who of the Colored Race. Chicago: Memento Edition, Negro Freedom in the U.S., 1915, p. 266.

289

The Sharecropper

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

George A. Towns CAST OF CHARACTERS VICTOR TURNER, a tenant LIZA9 Victor Turner's wife CULPEPPER, the landlord MISS JONES, the teacher AUNT MINERVA, a tenant's SHELBT, another tenant

wife

TOM, another tenant LIAS, a friend IKE, another friend

ACT 1 Scene 1 (Tenant's cabin, very early in the morning. Tenant waiting for his breakfast strumming on an old guitar; sitting between wash tub and table—cupboard "safe" to right of entrance at backstage. His wife cooking breakfast Door in center of backstage—stove on left corner back, one old chair between the door and stove, table in center. Washtub to right of table front, entrance to a sleeping room at left) 29O

Originally published privately, 1932

THE SHARECROPPER LIZA: Vic, don't you never gits tiahed o' playin' dat ole geetar? Why don't you go on and feed de mules, den yer breakfusll be ready by de time you gits back. vie: Dem mules thu eatin' ever mornin' by daylight. Wish I wuz a mule. LIZA: NOW listen at yo'—dis de fus time yo' ever had ter wait fo' yer breakfus and I specs you de cause o' dat, cause yo' kep me wake las night sittin' on de step playin' yer "Ole Black Sheep." Don' see how yo' made dat good crop dis year for playin' dat ole geetar. vie: Ha, ha, ha, well, you sees I made it, don' yo'? De boss man keeps on sayin' to me I got de bes crop he's seed anywheres roun', heah—Say, Liza, what you s'pose? LIZA: (turning from her cooking) What? vie: De boss man wuz jes raisin' perticlah dis mawnin' when I wuz up dar. LIZA: 'Bout what? vie: I don' know zactly what, but I kin'er spec him an' his wife wuz quarlin' *bout de car. LIZA: 'Bout de car? What T3out de car? vie: I don' zactly know, but I hyead him say dat "he wish de damn thing was smashed all to pieces." Den I hyead him say he ain't never in his life had a mortgage notice served on him befo'. LIZA: YOU ain't a bit wrong, Vic, 'cause I hyead her tell dat younges' gal o' dairs, dat she can' buy no more dresses in town 'cause her daddy is wor'd to death now t>out de po prospecs o' dey cotton crop. vie: Well, too bad, but dats all white folks trouble an' dat don' worry Vic. Ha, ha, ha dat sho soun' funny; Vic's gon' buy his wife new dresses when de white folks can' buy none. LIZA: Yes, but don' you count yer aigs 'fo deys hatched. You got a good crop all right, but you ain't got de money yit. vie: Gee, how much longer 'fo dat bread's done?

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GEORGE A. TOWNS LIZA: Come on, I reckon dis is done enough, (taking bread from the top ofstove, vie draws up to the table, says a simple blessing and eats) vie: (beginning to eat) Honey, what you wants me to bring you fum town? LIZA: Bring me fum town? vie: Yes. LIZA: YOU ain't got no money to bring me nuthin'. I don' see what you ax me dat fo\ You can' buy nothing fo' yo'sef den how you gwinter buy sump'n fo' me? You see, ef you had 'o took my egvice, you'd 'o gone to de Jones place dis year 'stid o' stayin' heah wid Culpepper. Jones would o' gived us a place fo' a patch and den I could o' raised some chickens an had some aigs to sell and gits me some little things. But look at ole Culpepper, he's so greedy for cotton dat he's made us plant it right up to de do'. vie: Well, dats so, but den, you know, de mo' you makes, de mo' you gits. LIZA: Humph, no, I don' know nuthin' o' de kin'. De mo' you makes, de mo' de white folks gits, I knows dat much. vie: Well, you know de contrac' is dat we's to git haf o' all we makes, don' you? LIZA: Yes, Vic, dat what you allus says, but I ain't goin' know dat till I gits ma hands on it. vie: You know we got haf o' what we made las' yeah, did'n we? LIZA: YOU says we did and Culpepper says we did, but I don' see how you ever know. You made ten bales las' yeah, but I ain't never seed yo' five. vie: You fu'gits dat we had to pay fo bales fo' our livin' an' dats why we got jes one bale at Christmus. LIZA: Yes, I 'members dat what you and him done said, but I still says dat I don' see where dem fo bales went. vie: It jes 'pears to you lack dat, 'cause you did'n keep de book. Don' you 'members las' yeah how he sot down ev'ything us got?

THE SHARECROPPER LIZA: Dats jes de pint. How come he did'n give us a book lack Corn Johnson uster do? He sot down ev'ything on my daddy's book well as his'n. Culpepper don't do dat; 'sides, all de corn an' all de cotton is kep' in Culpepper's barn, yo'n as well as his'n. Den how you goin' know when you gits all yo'n? vie: (getting up and wiping his mouth with his hand and rubbing his hands together) Liza, I see, you takes ev'ybody to be a rogue. LIZA: NO, I don't. vie: Ha, ha, yes you does. LIZA: NO, I don't neither, I jes knows what I sees, an' you don't. vie: Oh well, honey, (tapping LIZA under the chin affectionately) You thinks too much *bout de pas'. Jes fergit all dat and think *bout de good things what I'ms goin' to git fo' you out o' dis good crop we's got dis year. Dat's de thing to think about, (going to the door) Shelby Smith sho is a long time comin'. LIZA: Dat who you goin' to town wid? You ain' gon' never git to town in dat ole piece o' car o' his'n. vie: Dair he comes now, I see 'im way up de road. Blieve 111 go an' meet 'im. (takes his hat off a nail in the wall, puts it on and goes out) 'Cause I wants to git back by dinner. (LIZA doing regular Saturday's washing—tub on right of stage full of motley clothes, MISS JONES, THE SCHOOL TEACHER comes to visit and announces the opening of school LIZA is washing and standing with her side to the entrance—singing while washing her clothes) TEACHER: (coming up suddenly) Good morning, Mrs. Turner. LIZA: Good mawnin', Miss Jones. TEACHER: YOU must be very happy this morning, I heard you singing when I was away down the road. LIZA: Lordy, you can' tell by dat, honey—I sings when I'ms glad an' I sings when I'ms mad. (wiping out a chair with her skirt and motioning to MISS JONES to sit)

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GEORGE A. TOWNS

&: Why, you can't be mad this morning when you are singing like that. LIZA: Maybe not, but I tells yer I ain't glad. Maybe it's de bad dream what I had las' night. TEACHER: What in the world can be the trouble? Well, anyhow, maybe you will be glad to hear that I am going to open school the first Monday in September, and I want you to put your little boy, Andrew, in at the start. He's so smart. I wish he never had to stop but could go right on. Now can't you get his book so he can start at the very beginning next month? LIZA: I can' make you no promus, Miss Jones, but I sho will try. TEACHER: Why, what's the matter? You have always, before, been one of the best patrons and one of the first to send your child. Have I done anything to you? LIZA: Oh, no honey, youse all right. It's jes somp'n dat's pestin' ma min' right now, but I reckon we'll sen' 'im in 'fo long. TEACHER: Well, I'm going to look for him. (writing a note) This is the book that he will need. LIZA: All right (taking the note), but I 'clare to goodness, I don' see how I'm gon git no book. TEACHER: Why? You've always got his book before. LIZA: Well, I tells yer, honey, de Gawd's trufe is, dis white man we's wurkin' wid dis year don' wants to see no niggers gwine ter school, mo' speshly when de crops needs 'em. TEACHER: But Andrew is too little to pick enough cotton to count. LIZA: Dat's so, but ne'mine dat, he wants to see 'im car'in a row. 'Sides dat, I don' spec I could git de money fum him to buy de book. You knows ev'y thing has ter come thu de white folks. TEACHER: Well, I tell you what to do. You just try to get on without him and send him on, whether he has a book or not, and maybe, I can manage some way with him until you are able to get his book. LIZA: All right, den.

1

THE SHARECROPPER TEACHER: Goodbye, Mrs. LIZA: Go*by. She (talking

Turner, (she goes out) to herself) sho is a nice lit-

tle 'oman. in the (Enters CULPEPPER in shirt sleeves—standing door with hat on, angry and speaking loud) CULPEPPER: Liza,

where is Vic? (meekly) Mornin', Mr. Culpepper. Vic's gone to town, but I's 'spectin' 'im back putty soon. When he lef, he lowed he be back 'fo dinner. CULPEPPER: Well, you can jes tell 'im that I want him to get off 'o this place 'fo Monday night, and if tomorrow wuzn't Sunday, I'd kick 'im off o' here today. I don't low no damn nigger to beat my mules. I want you and him to get away fum here at once. LIZA: (agitated) Lawdy, Mr. Culpepper, what's Vic done? CULPEPPER: Done? Didn't you hear me say he's been beatin' my mules? You jes tell 'im to git away fum here or there'll be hell to pay. LIZA: (taking up the corner of her apron and begins to weep while raising her voice and spirit) No, Vic ain't been beatin' yo' mules nuther. Dat's de same mule he been wurkin all las' year, how comes you ain't drive 'im off las' year? CULPEPPER: Don't give me any of yo' head, or you'll git what's coming to Vic. (he goes out) LIZA: (sits down and weeps. Gets up and goes to look out of the door and down the road for vic's return) It's jes what I been tellin' Vic *bout stayin here two yeahs. I knowed dis wuz comin'. I jes knowed it wuz cumin', (tearful voice—sits down and buries her face) LIZA:

(MINERVA ROBERSON,

enters)

an old woman, a neighbor

tenant,

AUNT MINERVA: Look hyeah, Liza, whut's de matter wid you? Whut Culpepper wants? He comes by my house jes now and ax fo' Bill, and I tells 'im Bill doin' a little piece o' plowin'. Den he up an' ax me wheah in de hell's Vic? Right den, I knowed dars sump'n to matter. What he wants wid Vic?

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GEORGE A. TOWNS LIZA: He come hyeah tellin' me dat u s gots to move off de place. AUNT MINERVA: Move off de place? How come? (in attitude of surprise) LIZA: He say Vic beatin' his mules. Aunt Nervie, I knows dat ain't it. I knows jes zactly what he wants. AUNT MINERVA: YOU does?

Yes, I does. AUNT MINERVA: Don' you reckon he jes been drinkin' little too heavy? LIZA: NO 'tain' no drinkin'; hits jes mean devil in 'im, dats whut it is, an' I's knowed it fum de ve'y fust. He's jes a low down white man, dat's whut he is. AUNT MINERVA: HOW come he jes now tellin' 'im? LIZA: He jes wants Vic's good crop, dat's what it is, an' I don' keer who tells 'im. AUNT MINERVA: Lawd, chile, don' you think I'se go'n tell nobody. Dat's de way Culpepper does ev'ybody soon er later. Jes look how he's done me an' Bill. Cose, I knows Bill ain't smart ez yo' husban', but he's wuked an' wuked hard on dis place, men an' 'im bofe, an' whut is us got fo' it? Nuthin'. Las' year us had a book and us sot down ev'y las' thing us got in de book when us got it, an' whut's mo', we's got him to sot it down fo' us, an' yit, spite all dat when Christmus comes, he tell Bill he come out fifty dollars behine and dat he kin jes cah'y it over to dis yeah. Den he gives Bill a seeghar an' tells 'im he thinks he's done mighty well. So, I ain't 'tall 'sprised at whut he don' said to you, honey. But never you mind—Gawd don' love ugly, an' a cheatin' dog never thives. You kin jes put dat down, an' Culpepper ain't go'n come to no good end. I don' put dat bad mouf on 'im. Now you kin jes watch it. LIZA: (sitting in chair and leaning on the table while she weeps, covering her face, then says) I jes wish dat low down white man wuz dead an' all his kine. AUNT MINERVA: Oh, no, no, no, honey, don't say dat. Dat ain' gon hep you none, an' cheatin' ain' gon hep him none. LIZA:

THE SHARECROPPER LIZA: Yes I will say it an' I means it, too. Here I is, wuked, an' wuked an' wuked an' ain't got nothin'. Ain't got a dress to my name, ain't got no shoes, can' go to meetin', can' go to town, can' go nowheres. (weeps out loud again) Jes wuks myself almost to death in de brilin' sun jes to have dat low down white man take all us makes. He ain't nuthin' but a thief. I wish I never seed a white man. Dey's jes robbers. AUNT MINBRVA: Oh, no, no, no, honey, don' say dat. You knows Col'n Johnson ain't lack dat. You knows he pays ever cent he promus an' he don' low no rough treatment on his place. LIZA: Well, dat's jes one. AUNT MINBRVA: Yes, dat so, but I specs dars some mo' we don' know t>out. LIZA: An' I specs dey ain't, (tossing her head) Aunt Nervie, I don' want to hurt yo' feelings, but you jes lack Vic. (drying her eyes) You thinks a heap mo' o' white folks den dey thinks o' you. I knows what I'ms gonter do. I'ms goin' to town wher I don' hafter work a whole yeah fo' nothin' ef I does git cheated. AUNT MINBRVA: Chile, dey's white folks in town jes lack white folks in de country. LIZA: Don' keer ef dey is—makin nuthin in town can' be no wuss den nothin' in de country, dat's whut I says, (tossing her head with determination) AUNT MINBRVA: Well, ef you is gwine, spite o' all, jes 'member ef you gits hongry and wants some corn bread and taters, ole Aunt Nervie sho will 'vide wid yer whut she's got. I sho hopes it ain't gwinter turn out lack you thinks. Good bye hone, Gawd bless you (MINERVA

possible

leaves and LIZA gets up and looks around Jor weapons)

LIZA: Goodbye, Aunt Nervie. I wish Vic had a pistol; I'd show ole Culpepper how he come out cheatin' an' cussin' hard wukin' folks.

(Curtain)

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Scene 2 (vie and other tenants meet on the street in town. Engage in general talk of their condition and prospects. vie and SHELBY JACKSON walking along until they meet two other tenants) JACKSON: (stoops to pick up a piece of wire) Hoi' on a minute. Here's a good piece o' wire, (he bends it into a small roll and puts it into his pocket) I wish I had er foun' it when we wuz comin' on and den I could er fixed dat ole gas line what kep acomin' loose. Now well git back home a heap sooner. vie: Maybe, dat's what you oughter say wid dat car uv yo'n. (walking on and meeting other tenants coming from opposite direction, vie and SHELBY together) Heo, Lias, how you come on? LIAS: O, jes tollable, how's you? vie: Jes twix de sap an' de bark right now, but 'twon' be long now 'fo cotton be rollin' in' and den I'll be out o' dis tight place whats I'm in right now. How's you makin' it, Ike? IKE: Oh, nothin' to brag about. vie: You still on de Malry place, is yer? IKE: Yes. vie: You mus' like it over dar? IKE: Well, Mr. Malry is a right clever man, I mus' say. vie: What he do fer you? IKE: Tain't so much whut he do fur you ez 'tis he don' do nuthin' gin you. LIAS: (skeptically) Does he pay yo' whut he promus, dat's whut I'd lack to know. IKE: Yes, sir, he sho do. Cose, you'se got to work fer all dat you gits, but den he ain't gwinter rob yer out o' nuthin'. LIAS: Well, dat's mo'en I can say for my boss man. Tell me dis, does he gives you de money to buy yo' rashins, or does he gives yo' a order to de sto, or does he sells yo' some er de rashins hisself?

THE SHARECROPPER

IKE: Most in genly, he gives me a order to de sto. LIAS: (all the company laugh) Well, den, you ain't nevah goin' ter come out mo' den even. vie: (changing the conversation) Tell me, is y'all gwine to de big meetin', tomorah at Big Bethel? SHELBY: I reckon 111 go. vie: You mean yer gwinter staht, 'cause you don' know whar you gwine in yo' gas buggy. All you know is dat you gwinter staht. (all laugh) It tuck us n'our an' a haf to come twelve miles dis mawnin'. (all laugh again) SHELBY: Y'all don't know what's to matter wid Vic. He's gittin' ready to buy 'im a new car wid dat good cotton crop he's made dis yeah. ALL: IS dat so? SHELBY: It sho is. You meet 'im in town long *bout Christmus time, an' he ain' gon' know yer. I sho gives it to 'im do [though], 'cause he's got er bustin' good cotton crop. LIAS: Who's de preacher at Big Bethel tomorah? SHELBY: I don' know. Ike, you lives up dat way, who's de preacher tomorah? IKE: I don' zackly know, but I think it's Rev'und Dixon. Is you ever hyead 'im? LIAS: Yes, I's hyead 'im. IKE: HOW you lack 'im? LIAS: Oh, he's a prutty good preacher, but he ain't got no tone. I lacks a preacher wid a thunderin' voice. vie: Den, you come up ter Mount Zion Church on de second Sunday an' you'll hyeah a man what can shake de rafters. SHELBY: Yes, an' de singin' jes make a cold chill run down yo' back. vie: Well, mens, I hates to leave yo', but its gitten kinder late an' dey ain't no tellin' when me an' Shelby gwinter git home in dat fas' car o' his'n, but I would lack to git home two hours by sun. (all laugh) So, so long, take keer o' yo' sef.

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ALL: SO long, (all go out. The two couples go out in opposite directions) (Curtain)

Scene 3 (Vic's cabin, vie enters in a weary manner, LIZA gives no greeting—says nothing while vie talks) vie: Well, honey, Tins back, an' I'ms jes es tiahd es ef I had er walked dem twelve miles bofe ways. You sed we wus gon' ter have trouble wid Shelby Jackson's piece o' car an' we sho had plenty uv it. De gas line come unsawded an' de gas jes kep er runnin' out an' we ain't had no way to stop it 'till Shelby tuck a piece of cork and some string, and Gawd knows how he fixed it, but he did and we got to town in almost two hours. Comin' back, it broke aloose again and he fixed it wid some wire he foun' on de street in town; and I'ms jes es tiahd es I can be, an' hongry, too. I ain't had a bite to eat sence I lef. Dey's sellin' fish and bread in town, but dey gives yo' such a little piece fo' a dime, and dat's all I had, I thought I ruther bring you dis candy, (gives her a piece of red stick candy) What yo' got ter eat, some turnip greens? Whah you git turnips? I smelt 'em way out in de road. LIZA: (takes greens out of a boiler and puts them on the table) Heah's yo' dinner on de table. I reckon it's hot enough. vie: Hot? Good gracious alive. I'm hongry enough to eat cold stones, (vie eats eagerly) LIZA: (sullen) Ole Culpepper been down heah ter see you. (standing, one wrist on her hip) vie: What he want to see me t>out? LIZA: He say yo' got to move off dis place an' move right away. vie: He did? LIZA: Yes.

vie: (laughing) Ha, ha, ha, he must er got hoi' little too much o' his brudder-in-law's corn licker.

THE SHARECROPPER LIZA: NO, he ain't got hoi' o' no corn licker neither, it's jes de devil in 'im, dat's it. vie: What makes you say dat? I ain't done nuthin' to 'im an' he ain't done nuthin' to me, mo'en whut he's done to all de res' o' de hands on de place. LIZA: An' you can' see whut it is? Well, I can see whut it is an' I'ms gon' tell you what it is. It ain't nuthin' but yo' good cotton crop, dat's whut it is. I been tellin' yo' all de time, Vic, dat yo' can' see thu dese white folks, an' I been tellin' you' dat dey lack yo' jes lack dey lacks a mule an' dat is jes fo' ter use yo'. Dey does yo' wus dan dey do de mules, 'cause dey don' steal fum de mules and dey does steal fum yo'. I knowed ole Culpepper wuz jes 'ceitful all o' las' yeah, jes 'cause he wanted you to stay heah dis yeah, (taking up the end of her skirt and wiping her eyes) I tole you fust o' de yeah we ought ter move some wheah else dis year. vie: (going up to Liza and taking her in his arms) Honey, is dat whut wus to matter wid you? (laughs) Ha, ha, ha, I thought twuz some'n when you paid me no mine es I comes in. I knows what it is—you jes disopinted dat you can't go to big meetin' tomorah up at Big Bethel. But you jes wait jes a little longer, an' Vic's gwinter gits yo' de bes close an' de bes shoes he kin fin' in town. Now I sees whut my baby wuz cryin' *bout. LIZA: (dropping her skirt from her eyes) No, I ain't been cryin'—I'ms jes plum mad, ef you wants me ter tell you. (angrily) vie: What's yo' so mad about? (Vic continues puzzled) LIZA: Seems lak yo's mighty hard to un'erstan'. I tell yo' again mo' plainer dat ole Culpepper been down heah a rarin' an' cussin' an' sayin' dat yo's got ter move off dis place. Now, does yo' un'erstan'? vie: Rarin' an' cussin' *bout whut? LIZA: He says you been beatin' his mules. vie: Den he sholy must o' thought dat I driv his mules to town. Did you tell 'im dat I went wid Shelby?

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GEORGE A. TOWNS LIZA: NO. HOW could he think dat when all de mules stan'in up dah in de lot right whah he can see 'em? vie: Well, den, dat shows he wuz drinkin' a little too heavy. Hell be all right in de mawnin\ (in a comforting tone) LIZA: YO' spects heap mo' fum 'im den I do. I ain't never had no use fo' ole Culpepper fum de fust minit I laid eyes on 'im. He ain't nuthin' but a low down white man. Yo' done wrong to stay heah dis yeah anyhow. My daddy is right. He says he never sharecrops for no man mo'en one year. vie: One yeah? Whut you talkin' *bout, Liza? Dah ain't no use runnin' roun' fum pillar to post. LIZA: NO dey ain't' an' dey ain't no use givin' all you' hard labor away an' gittin' nuthin' fo' it. vie: Now, I ain't sayin' nuthin' *bout yo' daddy, but yo' knows well es I does dat a whole heap o' dese shercroppers don' make nuthin'; a heap uv 'em is lazy an' a heap uv 'em spens ever nickel dey gits dey han's on. Den dey turns roun' an' says de white folks robs 'em. Dey eats up all dey makes an' keeps no count uv it. You knows dat well es I does. LIZA: Wheah's all dat you made las' yeah? You didn' eat it up, an' you didn' throw it away, now wheah is it? You kin bleve in ole Culpepper all yo' has a min' to, but you gwinter fin' out fo' yo' sef jes how low down he is.

(Vic gets his guitar after the controversy, sits down and begins strumming, showing that he feels better after eating, when SHELBY enters wearing a troubled look, LIZA stands aside with her arms folded) LIZA: Come in, Shelby. I reckon yo' feel better now sence yo' had some'n t' eat. SHELBY: (puzzled and surprised to see no signs of trouble from the threats he has just heard that were made against vicj An' yo' settin' down playin' de geetar? Is Culpepper been here? vie: Not sence I come. Liza sez he wus heah dis mawnin' after we lef.

THE SHARECROPPER SHELBY: What

he say? vie: Oh, Liza say he wus sayin' lot o' stuff jes talkin' out o' his head, (indifferently) SHELBY: Whut he say, Vic? vie: He got Liza all skeered up, tellin' her I'se got to move off de place. SHELBY: An' yo' don' bleve none uv it? vie: No, 'cause I ain't done nuthin' to be movin' fur. SHELBY: Well, I tells you, Vic, cose 'taint none uv my business, but ef he had tole my wife dat, I'd think dah wuz sump'n to it. vie: Humph, yo' skeered, too, whut is yo' talkin' t>out? SHELBY: (trying to avoid having any blame laid to him for spreading the rumor) Cose, I don' know an' 'twusn't me what started it, but dey's sayin' all up an' down de road dat Culpepper wants yo' good cotton crop. vie: Well, he's gwinter git haf. Dat's de contrack. SHELBY: Well, so long, I jes thought I'd drop in an' tell you whut dey sayin'. (SHELBY goes out) LIZA: (speaking excitedly) Umhumph, see dat? It's jes lack Shelby says. I bet it's all up an' down de road whut Culpepper wants to do to you. vie: Well, I ain't gon' trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. LIZA: It 'pears to me lack de leas' you can do is to go to ole Culpepper an ax fo' er settlement, ef yo' gon' leave de place. vie: Who sed I'ms gon'leave? (sitting with his guitar on his knee and holding it by the neck) LIZA: Ef you don' leave, yo' sho gon' have some trouble wid ole Culpepper and yo' won' go huntin' fo' it neither, (LIZA goes to other room to weep) enters) vie: Come in, Aunt Nervie, is dat you? Don' bleve I's seed you dis week. (AUNT MINERVA

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GEORGE A. TOWNS AUNT MINERVA: NO, son, I reckon not. Look yer, honey, whut de matter wid yo' and Culpepper? (talking in a low voice) I done been heah once today, but I thought Fd come again after yo' got home to fine out *bout all dis whut I heah goin' 'round de place. vie: Whut you hyead, Aunt Nervie? (still holding guitar) AUNT MINERVA: Well, dey all says dat Culpepper gwinter run you away. I jes come to ax yer to go on off an' wait awhile till his anger cool off. 'Cause you knows ef he comes to run yo' off, he ain't gwinter come by hisself. You jes take yo' Aunt Nervie's advice an' go on off some'ers and take Liza wid yer. He's de kind o' white man whut ain't got no bowels o' passion on us folks. 'Sides, honey, you knows de law ain't gwinter do a thing l>out it ef he hurts you, and ef you hurts him, de law's gwinter do ev'ything *bout it, ef it gits de chance. I spects do [though] it won't git a chance. Jes look whut dey done to Drane Gilbut, dey killed dat po' chile and flung 'im on de side of de road. Heah. (handing him a small bundle) I thought you might be leavin' wid Liza tonight, so I baked yer some taters an' biled you some eggs—somp'n whut I knowed wouldn't spile. God bless you, honey, (taking up her apron and wiping her eyes, she arises to go) vie: Goodbye, Aunt Nervie, don't yo' feel worried *bout Vic. I sho ain't gon' leave my crop heah dout some good reason. Culpepper ain't said nuthin' to me, an' I don' see how come he can't say to me whut all de yothers roun' heah say he done said to dem. I thinks Liza an' all res' uv 'em jes ain't got de strait uv de matter. AUNT MINERVA: I hopes dey is wrong. Goodbye. vie: Goodbye, Aunt Nervie. (she goes out) (Enter TOM GILBERT, vie is sitting strumming absentmindedly on his guitar as if thinking of something) TOM: Heo, Vic! vie: Heo, Tom. Come in. Set down.

THE SHARECROPPER

TOM: I jes comes by Vic, ole boy, ter tells yer if yo' needs my help *bout Culpepper or anybody else, why, yo' kin git it, dat's all. I'm right wid yer. (pulls out a flask) Have a little drink wid me. vie: No thank yo\ Tom. I don't feel lack drinkin' nothin'. TOM: Taint gon hurt yo', Vic. It's jes whut Culpepper drinks, 'cause it comes fum dey own still, an' I knows whut I'ms talkin' *bout. (puts up the flask) Say, whut's he after yo' *bout, anyhow? Yo' got de bes crop anybody roun' heah an' I heahd 'im say dat outer his own mouf. Ef he tried to take MY crop I'd giv'im jes as much hell as he sens, 'BLEVE ME, I sho would. vie: (amused, chuckles, knowing TOM to be a coward and a braggart) Tom, yo' done killed three er fo' men, already, ain't yo'? TOM: NO, I ain't kilt nair'n, but jes de same, blest ef I'd let any man take my crop whut I done wuk fu. vie: (smiling) What would yo' do to 'im, Tom? TOM: Why, I'd, I'd, I jes wouldn't stan' fo' it, dat's all. vie: 'Spose he had a gun? TOM: Den I'd jes git me a couple er guns, dat's whut I'd do. vie: But would yer use 'em do [though]? TOM: Use 'em? Deed Ah would. (A call is heard outside, recognized as the voice of out CULPEPPER comes stalking in with his hat on and flushed, talking in a loud angry tone)

CULPEPPER TOM sneaks

CULPEPPER: YOU, Vic! (comes rushing in) TOM: SO long, Vic, I got to step right down de road, a little piece, but 111 be right back, (sneaks out) vie: Yessir, Mr. Cul. CULPEPPER: Damn it, I just come to tell you to git right off this places jus' soon es you can. I lows no damn nigger to beat my mules.

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vie: (serious) Mr. Culpepper, I ain't been beatin' yo' mules. Dat mule I wuks walks so fas' she don' need no beatin'. CULPEPPER: That's all right, you git away from here and that damn quick. Don't let Monday morning catch you round here, or there'll be hell to pay. vie: Well, den, you pays me fo' de crop I done made. CULPEPPER: I'll pay it to your hide ef you don't git away from here. vie: (swelling with anger) Dat's all right. We'll see *bout dat. CULPEPPER: (enraged, turns upon vie, at the same time pulling out a pistol) Don't you gimme none o' your head, or I'll put daylight through you. vie: You jes pay me, dat's all I wants, an' den you won't git no head. CULPEPPER: (advances upon vie) Take that for your pay. (strikes vie on the head with the pistol. They grapple. The pistol Jails, CULPEPPER breaks away and flees after losing his weapon) LIZA: (rushing in after the fight screaming to the top of her voice, throws herself into vic's arms) Oh! Oh! Vic, Vic, Vic. vie: (puffing and blowing) Now let 'im take de crop. Fool wid me an' he won' take nobody else's crop. LIZA: (weeping) I knowed it, I knowed it, dat's all he wants, de low down trash. vie: Now, come on, honey, we sho's got to be movin' right off. (Curtain)

May Miller c. 1 8 9 9 May Miller was born at the turn of the century to Annie Mae Butler, a teacher at the Baltimore Normal School, and Kelly Miller, a professor of sociology at Howard University. The third of five children, May Miller pursued an academic career, graduating with a B.A. from Howard and then taking additional work at American and Columbia universities. For twenty years, she taught speech and drama at Frederick Douglass High School in Baltimore. Keenly aware that her young students needed to see plays about black heroes and pioneers, Miller began writing one-acts—Christophers Daughters, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth. During the decades of the 1920s and 1930s, she authored nearly twenty one-act plays, several of which she published in a volume with Willis Richardson in Negro History in Thirteen Plays (1935). "We started to dramatize Negro history because it is a treasure trove and greatness has no boundaries." Her subjects ranged from a drama of Moses based on a verse in the Old Testament book of Numbers ("And Miriam and Aaron spake against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman he had married") to a comedy, Riding the Goat, concerning the problems of a young black physician whose mores differ from those of the community.

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Nails and Thorns, a prize play in the Southern University writing contest in 1933, is a drama in the tradition of antilynching plays. The first, Rachel (1916), by Angelina Weld Grimke, was composed in response to D. W. Griffith's film Birth of a Nation. A contemporary poet, Georgia Douglas Johnson, composed three antilynching plays. Grimke, Johnson, and Miller, all Washington, D.C., residents, were daughters of a generation that had witnessed the hundreds of brutal lynchings following the withdrawal of federal troops from the South in 1877. (From 1882 to 1962, 4,736 persons were murdered by mobs.) The title Nails and Thorns refers to the Crucifixion, but May Miller takes a different tack from the standard plot that features the suffering of the black family as the husband or the son is killed by a white mob. Miller focuses on the damage to the white family, the destruction of their morality, their happiness, and finally their own will to survive. The only black character in the play, a maid, does not participate in the action but serves as a witness to the white family's collapse. Although Miller felt that drama was a good medium for politicizing, in her middle years she gave up playwriting to pursue another talent, poetry—a medium that she felt should not serve as a lecture platform. Her interest in poetry had developed as a child, when the poet Paul Laurence Dunbar lived in the Miller home. Later, her home on S Street in Washington, D.C., became a center for writers and poets—Frank Home, Georgia Douglas Johnson, OwenDodson, Gwendolyn Brooks, Charles Sebree, Toni Morrison. She has published seven volumes of poetry: Into the Clearing (1959), Poems (1962), Not That Far (1973), The Clearing and Beyond (1974), Dust of Uncertain Journey (1975), Halfway to the Sun (1981), and The Ransomed Wait (1983). In 1974, Miller defined herself: "I am dedicated to a far-reaching scope for art, always believing in who I am and the direction in which I am going."

MAY MILLER

References Hatch, James, and Omanii Abdullah. Black Playwrights, 1823-1977. New York: R. R. Bowker, 1977, pp. 162-64. Hatch, James, and Ted Shine. "Graven Images." Black Theatre USA. New York: Free Press, 1974, pp. 353-59. Interview. Oral History Tapes. Hatch-Billops Collection. March 1972 and July 1974. Miller, May. "Scratches." Carolina Magazine 59, no. 7 (April 1929): 36-44. Perkins, Kathy A. "Stragglers in the Dust," "Riding the Goat," "Christophe's Daughters," "Harriet Tubman." Black Female Playwrights: An Anthology of Plays before 1950. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989. pp. 141-86. Richardson, Willis. "Riding the Goat." Plays and Pageants from the Life of the Negro. Washington, D.C.: Associated Publishers, 1930, p. 141. Richardson, Willis, and May Miller. Negro History in Thirteen Plays. Washington, D.C.: Associated Publishers, 1935. Rush, Theressa, Carol Myers, and Esther Arata. Black American Writers Past and Present. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1975, pp. 546-47.

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Nails and Thorns A PLAY IN ONE ACT

May Miller PERSONS OF THE PLAT STEWART LANDERS, the sheriff of the town GLADYS LANDERS, his Wife ANNABEL, a Negro servant WILSON, THOMAS, ANDERSON, aides to the sheriff DOCTOR STEELE CURIOUS TOWNSPEOPLE

Time: The 1930's Place: A small town—probably South, probably West—a small town ruled by frenzy Scene: The comfortable living room of the sheriff's bungalow

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The living room is furnished in the mode of the day with radio, tables, reading lamps, and a three-piece suite of overstuffed furniture. There are two windows and two doors in the room. The door to the left leads to the rest of the house; the one to the right, covered with a screen door, leads to the outside. It is early twilight on a warm June day and the windows and doors are open. GLADYS, a slender woman in her late twenties, is standing before the screen door nervously latching and unlatching the catch. Her husband, STEWART, a large-shouldered man, is seated in

NAILS AND THORNS

one of the chairs with a paper open before him. He pretends to be reading, but furtively he follows his wife's nervous movements. GLADTS: (bolting the screen door and turning back into the room) Stewart! (more urgently) Stewart! STBWART: (laying aside the paper) Yes—. GLADTS: I do wish you had notified the Governor this afternoon. STEWART: I thought I explained to you that the Governor is a busy man and can't be disturbed every time there is a little outburst in a town. GLADYS: But, Stewart, this isn't any little outburst. You ought to understand your own home town well enough to know that a Negro's assault on a white woman is a pretty serious affair. STEWART: We don't even know yet that it was a Negro. The Davis girl was pretty hysterical and we couldn't get much straight this afternoon. GLADYS: But you did arrest a Negro. STEWART: Yes, simple Lem. Some pretty damaging evidence seemed to point to the half-wit, and we thought we'd better lock him up for safekeeping; that's all. No charges have been placed against him. The girl will be clearer tomorrow and well get things straight then. GLADYS: Tomorrow may be too late. STEWART: Why? What do you mean? GLADYS: You know well enough what I mean, but you won't let it pass your lips. Stewart, why can't we be frank with each other? You're sitting there thinking just like I am—what would happen if a mob gathered? STEWART: (rising and going to the window) Come here. Look out there at that quiet street. Does that look like a riot scene? GLADYS: (standing beside him) No, it doesn't. STEWART: NOW listen. Do you hear any sounds of a mob? GLADYS: Not now, but you can't tell what night will bring. Ugly things move in the dark.

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MAY MILLER STBWART: Well, if you just must have a mob, we can take care of even that. Didn't I tell you the jail is well protected and IVe taken every precaution? Deputies and police are guarding the place and we have enough tear bombs and shot guns to stop any crowd. GLADTS: YOU say that to reassure me. Down in your heart you're doubting with me. You're afraid you did wrong not to notify the Governor to have the state militia on hand. Aren't you really? STEWART: (indulgently) The only wrong thing I've done is let you talk yourself into the belief that there is a possibility of a lynching in this town, when there isn't any. (he walks over to GLADYS and leading her to a chair forces her gently into the chair. He pushes a section of the newspaper into her hand) Here, read this. The comic will be good for your nerves. I wouldn't miss an evening of "Desperado Joe" for anything, (enthusiastically bending over her shoulder) Look here at the pickle he's in. They've just caught Joe who kidnapped Percy's girl. And look at this. It's a wow. (laughing.) Here the gang's got him, and is he scared! GLADTS: The gang's got him. Stewart, how can you laugh? (in a horrified voice) The gang's got him. STEWART: Oh, all right—skip it, skip it. Gladys, you're losing your sense of humor. After all, it's only a funny. I do believe this mess is on your nerves.

(A thin whimper is heard from the next room) GLADYS: (rising and thrusting the paper in STEWART'S hand) You see your loud laughing has wakened Junior. STEWART: Isn't Annabel with him? GLADYS: NO, she hasn't come yet, but she'll be here almost any time now; she never disappoints. (GLADYS exits through door to the left STEWART goes again to the window and looks first to the left and then to the right as if peering up and down the street. He goes to the radio and attempts to dial a station.

NAILS AND THORNS

Disgusted at his failure to clear the static, he returns to the easy chair, snaps on a lamp, and settles to read again. Afrantic knock on the screen door breaks the silence. An excited voice calls, "Mis9 Landers! Mis9 Landers." STEWART goes hurriedly to the door. GLADYS comes from the next room) GLADTS: What

is it? Who is it, Stewart?

opens the door. ANNABEL, a stout pleasantlooking brown woman, stumbles into the room)

(STEWART

STEWART: (relieved) See, Gladys, you've worked yourself up to a frenzy about nothing. It's only Annabel. GLADTS: (noticing that ANNABEL has stood still with her eyes bulging in fear) Why, Annabel, what's the matter? You knocked on that door hard enough to shake the house. You frightened me. ANNABEL: (gasping) Yes'm. I was scared, too. Mistah Landers, please lock that door. STEWART: (latching the screen door) Sure, 111 lock it, but why? ANNABEL: Sah, I thought as I'd nevah git heah. I was that scared. GLADYS: Sit down, Annabel. Now tell us what happened to you. ANNABEL: (sinking on a chair) Ma'm, it's happ'ned to all us cullud folks. Down there beyond the railroad tracks, there's nary a dark face about. They's gone in an' locked their doors an' pushed chairs an' tables up 'gainst 'em so as nobody kin git to 'em. Tomorrer mos' o' 'em what kin fine the money 's gonna git way from heah. GLADYS: Why are they acting like that, Annabel? ANNABEL: All 'count o' what's happ'ned to po' daffy Lem. STEWART: Nothing has happened to Lem; they had to lock him up until they find out all about a terrible affair that happened this afternoon. ANNABEL: That's jes' it, Mistah Landers: them Davises is sich strong people. There's 'nough o' 'em to

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burn the whole town, an' they kin burn po' Lem easy

as that, (she snaps herfingers) STEWART: What

a crazy notion, Annabel. It ain't crazy. We cullud folks has heard all *bout it. Some o' the men uptown done tole their friends an' say foh 'em to git off the streets to keep out o' trouble 'cause they wouldn't lak to hafta burn up all the good cullud folks, too. That's why I was so scared. Mah folks at home tried to keep me, but I knowed you all 'ud be lookin' foh me so I stole out an' kinda bent ovah so as nobody couldn't see mah face an' I sneak on up heah. STEWART: And you see nothing has happened to you. ANNABEL: Yes sah, but all along on the streets I seen a li'l bunch o' folks heah an' a lil bunch there, an' they all was gittin' together talkin', then they'd go jine up wid the other bunch. One time one o' 'em hollered at me an' I started runnin' an' jes' keep right on 'til I got heah. GLADTS: All right, Annabel, now you're here safe and sound, and you need not worry any more. You go fix the baby's bottle and take it to him. And try to forget all about Lem and the affair. ANNABEL: (going offstage through the door to the left) Yes'm. Yes'm. ANNABEL:

(The door closes behind ANNABEL and GLADYS goes over to STEWART J GLADTS: (anxiety in her voice) See, Stewart, what did I tell you? STEWART: YOU can't believe everything Annabel says. She's excited and imaginative. She hasn't seen half of what she thinks she's seen. GLADYS: Annabel has never been one to lie. STEWART: NO, she hasn't, but she's frightened and doesn't know what she's saying. The Negroes are very excitable and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if a number of them didn't leave town suddenly, right here in the midst of crop season. It's too bad. I wish we could have

NAILS AND THORNS

kept Lem's arrest from them. That's one of the bad things about these cursed affairs—the good ones suffer with the bad. GLADTS: And remember it isn't only the Negroes that suffer. Every time any injustice is done or any disgrace falls, all of us feel it. Our children feel it. STEWART: (good-naturedly) You're one proud mother, aren't you? Ever since Junior drew his first breath, all I have heard is our children. GLADTS: Seriously, Stewart, before he came, I never had any idea how much you bothered about what your children were going to do, even what they were going to think. Now, all the time I worry about the kind of world Junior will have to live in. That's the reason I didn't like the comic strip you showed me. I hate the thought that he'll be reading about gangs and mobs and enjoy them. STBWART: I read them, and you don't seem to find me so bad. GLADYS: You're a man and know the difference between right and wrong. Your ideas are formed and you don't need anything to guide you. STEWART: (putting his arm around her shoulders) But you mustn't get the jitters about it, Gladys, or Junior will have to grow up without a mother to guide him, and that would never do for either Junior or me. GLADYS: I know, Stewart, I have been a bit nervous, and I'm going to try to keep steady. But I lived in a town once where they lynched a man and I can never forget how the town and the people suffered. It wasn't what they did to the unfortunate man alone. He was out of his misery. It was what they did to every soul in that town. They crucified everything that was worthwhile—justice and pride and self-respect. For generations to come the children will be gathering the nails and thorns from the scene of that crucifixion. STEWART: Don't misunderstand me, Gladys. I agree with you that a lynching is a horrible thing and even more than you I would hate to have one happen here.

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Besides, I don't want my son to grow up in a lawless town. This place has never been guilty of a lynching and I would feel terribly responsible at this late date to blot our record. GLADTS: That's the reason I think you'd better go on out and take a look about town, even though you don't believe all Annabel said. Maybe you'd better have that call to the Governor put through, too, just to be on the safe side. STBWART: I'll take a look around. I don't believe much in Annabel's vision, but it can't hurt and you'll be satisfied. (He takes his hat from the table, kisses GLADYS, and goes out GLADYS stands looking down the street after him. Finally, as if satisfied, she turns back into the room) GLADTS: Annabel,

Annabel, come in here.

(ANNABEL standing in the doorway, a nursing bottle in her hand) GLADYS: Come

in here, Annabel. I want you to tell me

something. I ain't finished feedin' the baby, Ma'm. can bring him in here. ANNABEL: Yes'm. (she goes offstage and returns with the baby wrapped in a light blanket She takes the rocking chair indicated by GLADYSJ GLADYS: Does he seem restless? I heard him whimper earlier this evening. ANNABEL: No'm; he was jes' hungry, I gis, 'cause he's sartinly makin' way wid this bottle. GLADYS: Now tell me while you're feeding him—who told your folks about what the people were going to do to Lem? ANNABEL: I doan 'xactly 'member, Ma'm. GLADYS: Now try to remember. If you tell me, I can tell Mr. Landers when he comes back and he'll stop all that talk. ANNABEL:

GLADYS: YOU

NAILS AND THORNS ANNABEL: Now lfct me see. I blieve Ruby tole me an' she had it from Josh's Sarah an' Sarah got it from Josh from the store where he works on Main Street. His boss had lots o' men a-comin' an' a-goin' all evenin'. He tole Josh that the folks was gonna give Lem a lil necktie party so as others would 'member that even if they ain't got sense, they gotta know a white woman; an' if they's crazy 'nough not to, they gotta go to the crazy house. GLADTS: I wonder why they never sent Lem upstate to the asylum. ANNABEL: His ma did wanta ask Mistah Landers *bout sendin' him long time ago, but Mistah Joe what owns the farm say their crops wasn't no good nohow an' they wasn't payin' nothin' an' they bes' keep Lem to help make out, 'cause Lem was strong an' could work. GLADTS: It's too

bad.

ANNABEL: Yes'm, it sho is; I doan know what Lem done 'xactly but the whole town's gone plumb crazy, an' Josh's boss say they's gonna burn Lem. GLADYS: NOW, Annabel, you mustn't believe all that. Lem will have a fair trial. They'll keep him locked up safe until then. ANNABEL: But they can't. GLADYS: They can't—what do you mean? ANNABEL: Josh say the man what hole the keys is the Davis girl's cousin an' he's mad lak all the res'. He come in the store, too, an' plan wid the men. GLADYS: That's probably wrong. I don't think that's true. ANNABEL: (looking up quickly) What ain't, Ma'm? GLADYS: About the keeper's being the girl's cousin and planning with the rest. ANNABEL: Yes'm, 'tis, too. I knows mo' *bout this town 'n you does, Mis' Landers, 'cause mah mammy nursed mos' o' these folks. She say one haf them's related an' those what ain't has got relatives what is. An' I 'members the Davises an' the Miltons is all mixed up there

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MAY MILLER

way back. Anyhow, he's gonna let 'em in tonight. Josh heard 'im promise. GLADTS: (excited) Annabel, why did you let Mr. Landers go without telling him that? ANNABEL: I was that scared, Ma'm, I forgit some things. Mistah Landers didn't blieve me nohow; he jes' kinda laff at what I said. GLADTS: (going to the door and looking out) It's so dark now. I'm afraid I'll have trouble finding him but he ought to know. I wish he'd come back by here. (suddenly thrusting her head further out in a startled gesture) Annabel, did you hear anything? ANNABEL: Only you talkin', Ma'm, an' the quiet breathin' o' this blessed angel. GLADYS: (excitedly) Annabel, listen, listen! YANNABEL stops rocking. In the silence, a slight roaring is heard. The sounds grow louder and the jeering of a mob can be heard. The sounds grow louder. ANNABEL fays the baby on the divan and goes to the door and stands beside GLADYS in the doorway) I was so afraid and now it's happened; it's happened. ANNABEL: Don't git upset yit, Ma'm. You doan know what's happ'ned. GLADYS: Yes, I do. I've felt it coming all the time. ANNABEL: Didn't Mistah Landers go down to the jail? Ain't he the sheriff an' couldn't he take them keys from Mistah Milton? Maybe that's what he done. GLADYS: NO, I'm afraid he couldn't do anything against a crowd. ANNABEL: He's got mah prayers to help him out. GLADYS: It's more than my prayers he's got. I am there with him, helping him fight back the mob. I'm fighting to save all of us from sorrow—the torture to that crazy boy, the disgrace to our town and against all the evil they're building for our children and our children's children to bear. (GLADYS shudders and buries her head in her hands) ANNABEL: (alarmed by the mounting hysteria in GLADYS'S voice, ANNABEL looks at GLADYS solicitously.

NAILS AND THORNS

Gently touching her arm) Doan take on so, Mis' Landers. You's shakin' all ovah. You bes' go on in, Mis' Landers, an' lay down. (GLADYS turns back into the room and walks back and forth. ANNABEL remains at the door) GLADTS: Lie down, lie down—I can't lie down not knowing what's happening.

(Hurried footsteps pass. Voices are heard calling, "Lynch him" "String him up," "They got him." The sound of general rioting grows louder and nearer. ANNABEL latches the screen door and starts to shut the house door) ANNABEL: (covering her face and sobbing) Po' crazy Lem—po' Lem. Please, Good Lawd, save 'im. GLADTS: There's no use closing that door, Annabel. You can't shut it out. I heard. They've got him; haven't they? ANNABEL: Yes'm, that's what they's hollering. GLADTS: And they're passing up Greene Street; aren't they? ANNABEL: Yes'm, I think so. GLADTS: Right to the town hall to make mockery of all we ought to be. (growing more excited) They can't do this. They mustn't. ANNABEL: And so they's really gonna burn him! GLADTS: (in a horrified whisper) Burn a human being, oh no! There must be some way to stop it. ANNABEL: YOU jes' hafta leave it to the Lawd now, Mis' Landers. Oh Jesus, help us. GLADTS: If only I could make them listen to me. They don't know what they're doing. ANNABEL: They ain't got no ears now, Ma'm. GLADTS: If I could make them forget this afternoon, forget the poor crazy fellow and look at themselves and their children. ANNABEL: They ain't forgot 'em. They's got chillun wid 'em. I seen some o' 'em pass down by the corner.

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MAY MILLER GLADTS: The children too! They can't do that to our children. They're all we have. They're our promise— our future. ANNABEL: Yes'm, mah chillun's all I got, too. If 'twasn't foh 'em, I wouldn't be a-workin' all the time 'til I's ready to drap. Then come a time lak tonight an' I git to thinkin' that mah sons has gotta grow up in this town, too, an' 'sposin' aftah all mah work they ends lak that, (she makes a futile gesture toward the door) GLADYS: Surely, your sons will grow up in this town and so will my son and probably their sons' sons. I'll tell that mob how I feel. I'll tell them how you feel. I'll show them my baby—he is this town's tomorrow. (snatching her baby from the divan) ANNABEL: Where you goin', Ma'm? GLADYS: Out to tell them. ANNABEL: But you can't do that; you can't take no baby out in that crowd. GLADYS: My son will show them the way. ANNABEL: I's hid mah sons an' you'd bes' hide your'n till those folks git some sense. GLADYS: (going to the door) When they hear my plea, when they see my son, they'll understand. ANNABEL: (puts out a restraining arm) They won't lissen. They's wors 'n po' Lem. They's plumb crazy. (GLADYS breaks past ANNABEL and, baby in arm, rushes out ANNABEL stands stunned, looking after her. She watches for a while and then, as the sounds of the riot grow close, she turns away, closing the house door. She snaps out the large lamp and, leaving the light only from the next room, peeks cautiously out the window from the side. A thundering knock is heard on the door. ANNABEL crouches in fear. The knock is repeated. A voice calls, "Mrs. Landers, Mrs. Landers. Anybody home?") ANNABEL: (looking from window) Who is you? What you want here? Mistah Landers ain't home.

NAILS AND THORNS THOMAS: We ain't lookin' for the sheriff. We're his men an' he sent u s here. (ANNABEL opens the door, WILDON, THOMAS, and ANDERSON enter. They are ordinary white men in rough pants and shirt sleeves) ANDERSON: What

you doin' here? WILSON: She's awright; she the Landers' Annabel. ANNABEL: Evenin', Mistah Wilson, I didn't know it was you, an' you can't blame me none foh not wantin' to open that do' wid me heah all by mah lone self. ANDERSON: Where's the missus? The sheriff sent u s here to look out for things. ANNABEL: She got a notion in her head to stop that mob an' ran out wid the baby. THOMAS: Ran out with the baby! Where? ANNABEL: Out there where the mob is. ANDERSON: Good Gawd, Tom, the sheriff'll raise the devil. We was supposed to guard her an' the house. THOMAS: We'd been here if we hadn't had to stop for you, Wilson. WILSON: Got any notion which way she went, Annabel? ANNABEL: She say somethin' *bout goin' up Greene Street way. ANDERSON: Say, fellows, you stay here an' look out for things. I'll see if I see anything o' her. She ain't got no business out in that mob with no baby, (he goes out) WILSON: (sinking in a chair) Annabel, gimme some water. ANNABEL: Yes, sah. (she goes offstage) THOMAS: (going to the porch door) I think I'll stand here on the porch an' see whether I can hear anything from up the street. WILSON: Can you? THOMAS: Nope. Seems to have quieted down. Wonder what's goin' on.

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MAY MILLER WILSON: You know, I'm glad the boss put me on duty down here. I guess now that they've got the fellow, they'll lynch him an' I ain't much on stomachin' the likes o' that. THOMAS: Say, Wilson, the boss sure knew what he was doin' when he sent us up here. What fool notion do you think made the missus take a baby out in that crowd? Sure hope Andy finds her. I wouldn't know what to tell the boss. WILSON: Say, Tom, what happ'ned down to the jail? THOMAS: The sheriff fought like a hell cat but wasn't no use. Them folks were plumb mad. WILSON: How'd they get to the jail? ' THOMAS: YOU know haf the deputies were the Davis kin an' I heard Milton give 'em the key. WILSON: Milton 11 sure be in hot water. THOMAS: Gee, they're quiet. Wonder if the sheriff finally got 'em to change their minds. You know once down there at the jail I thought he had won 'em over. He stood in front o' Lem's cell pleadin' an' some o' 'em was haf listenin'. Then somebody yelled, " 'Spose it was your wife!" WILSON: I know that ended it. THOMAS: Yeah, 'Course mos' o' the staff stood by the sheriff but I wonder what I'd do if it was my women folk. WILSON: Dunno, Tom; but then the poor rascal was daffy. THOMAS: They're so damned quiet up there, I— ANNABEL: (coming back with glass of water and handing it to WILSONJ Mistah Wilson, has they burned Lem? WILSON: I dunno. ANNABEL: But they got him; didn't they? WILSON: Yeah. ANNABEL: An' they took him on up to Town Square to burn him, didn't they? WILSON: I guess so, Annabel.

NAILS AND THORNS AIWNABBL: (sobbing aloud) Yeah, I know they burnt him, too, jes' lak they said they'd do. Oh, Lawd, have mercy on is po' daffy soul. THOMAS: (calling from the porch) Say, Wilson, here comes the boss. WILSON: Hey, Annabel, quit that fuss. The boss's had a pretty bad night an' he don't want to come home to no wailin' an moanin'. (ANNABEL

ters.

dries her eyes and looks up as STEWART en-

(STEWART has a tired, hopeless expression on his face and his shoulders are drooped, THOMAS follows him in from the porch) STEWART: Well, (ANNABEL

boys, we didn't save him.

goes out of the room sobbing)

WILSON: (standing) Sorry, sheriff. I know you don't want to say nothin' t>out it now. STEWART: (taking a seat and dropping his forehead in his hands) Thank you, Thomas and Wilson. THOMAS: Any other orders, sir? STEWART: Nothing right now. The Square is guarded. Thomas, you might go down to the jail and see whether Ogden wants you for anything—he's in Milton's place. I'll be down in a little while. We expect the state militia in about half an hour. THOMAS: Yes, sir. (he goes out) WILSON: Will they stay? We don't need them now, do we? STEWART: YOU can't tell. But we'll be on hand to welcome them, (looking around) Where's Mrs. Landers? WILSON: I dunno, sir, but when we got here she had gone. STEWART: Gone—gone where? WILSON: We couldn't 'xactly find out, sir, but Annabel says she took the baby an' went out in the crowd. Tom and I stayed here, an' Anderson went out to look for 'em.

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MAY MILLER STBWART: My God, Wilson, what are you saying. Took the baby and went out in that crowd! Annabel! Annabel! ANNABEL: (drying her eyes as she comes from the next room) Yes, sah. STEWART: Annabel, what's this you told Mr. Wilson? Where's Mrs. Landers? ANNABEL: She went out lak I tole Mistah Wilson. STEWART: Went out with the baby? ANNABEL: Yes, sah. She did,

sah.

STEWART: Where?

When? What did she say? ANNABEL: Somethin' *bout when they seen her baby an' heard her plea, they'd lissen. STEWART: (grabbing his hat) Wilson, you stay here 'til I come back. If Mrs. Landers—(a loud hub-bub is heard on the steps, and ANDERSON, half-leading, halfcarrying the disheveled and hysterical GLADYS, enters. They are followed by a small crowd of people who group themselves near the door, STEWART goes quickly and takes GLADYS from ANDERSON'S arms) Where's the baby, Gladys? (GLADYS sobs hysterically) Gladys, it's Stewart. Tell me, where is the baby? ANDERSON: Sir, I—(his voice is drowned by the concert voices of the group and the hysterical sobbing of GLADYSJ

STEWART: Can't I get an answer from some of you folks? Where is my son?

(A loud chorus

answers)

ANDBRSON: (pushing the people out of the room) Hey, you folks, git out. The sheriff can't git nothin' straight, (WILSON aids him in heading the curious people toward the door. One man steps aside from the crowd) Wilson, don't you see that's the doctor? WILSON: 'Scuse me, Doc, I didn't know what I was doing, (he succeeds in getting the others out and closes the door, shutting out their grumbling) STEWART: What is it, Gladys? Where's the baby?

NAILS AND THORNS GLADTS: Dead—dead! Didn't they tell you? The mob lynched your son along with crazy Lem. They knocked him down—they stamped on him. Oh, Stewart, they won't listen—they can't even see me—they're killing my baby. STBWART: Gladys, my God, Gladys, you don't know what you're saying. It's the baby. Where did you take the baby? GLADTS: He's dead, dead, I tell you, and I'm glad. (laughing hysterically) He'll never have to see a lynching. STEWART: Gladys, you are hysterical. Try to think. I must understand you. GLADYS: I said it. He's dead. He'll never—never— (she crumples up in STEWART'S arms) DOCTOR: It is the truth, Sheriff. You'd better let me have her, sir. Well have to put her to bed. I wouldn't try to question her any further. Your man will tell you.

(he takes

GLADYS from

STEWART'S

arms)

STEWART: The truth, truth! (he opens the door and half-dazed, leads the DOCTOR carrying GLADYS from the room. The DOCTOR follows) WILSON: Annabel, you better go with the doctor to help with Mrs. Landers. ANNABEL: Yes, sah. (she follows the DOCTOR offstage) WILSON: Andy, was the Missus tellin' the truth or was she out her head? ANDERSON: It was God's gospel. Ain't this a night for the boss? (STEWART stumbles back into the room and takes the chair which WILSON has just risen from and pushed toward him. He sits there with his head buried, groaning) STEWART:

understand.

My God, my God, my son dead! I don't

ANDERSON: Sir, there wasn't no use in lyin' to you. The baby is dead. We picked up the doctor, but when

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the doctor took one look he knew. He said we'd better leave the poor little thing at his house, an' he come on with us. STBWART: (brokenly) How did it happen, Andy? ANDBRSON: When we got here she had gone, so Tom an' Wilson stayed to watch the house an' I went to look for her. When I got in the thick o' that crowd I looked right an' left an' couldn't find her nowhere. Til finally I heard someone say a woman was screamin' 'cause they'd knocked her an' the baby down, an' the baby got trampled in the crowd. I beat my way to her an' sure 'nough it was Mrs. Landers. She was clutchin' the baby an' screamin'. Somebody had her, but I explained you'd sent me to git her. The poor little baby was dead then. Then I got Mrs. Landers down by the doctor's an' we come on here. Somebody yelled they killed the Landers baby—that's how those folks come to follow us. STEWART: I see. Thank you, Andy. WILSON: Anything we can do, Mr. Landers? STEWART: The militia'll be here any minute now. You'd better get on down there and tell them I'll be down as soon as I get things straight here. ANDERSON AND WILSON: Yes, sir. (they go out) STEWART: (going to the door of the room) May I speak to you, Doctor? (DOCTOR comes out closing door behind him) How is she? DOCTOR: I've given her a needle and she has quieted down nicely. STEWART: May I see her? DOCTOR: I don't advise it. Talking will only excite her more. She has had the severest type of shock. She should see no one until she has had some sleep. STEWART: And my—my— DOCTOR: I'm awfully sorry, Sheriff, but he'd been dead when I got him. We left him in my operating room for the night. You can make arrangements in the morning.

NAILS AND THORNS STEWART: My son—it all happened so quickly—so quickly. I can't make myself realize it. DOCTOR: If there's anything I can do— STEWART: Thanks, Doctor. Will you stay with her until I return? DOCTOR: Yes. The colored woman says she is staying, too, an' she's very helpful. She seems to be able to quiet her. STEWART: Yes, Annabel's a very good woman—a very, very wise woman. Now I've got to be getting down to the jail to meet the state militia. They're arriving at nine, (STEWART takes his hat and goes slowly toward the door. The screen door closes behind him and the DOCTOR starts back to the room)

(Curtain)

327

Owen Vincent Dodson (1914-1983)

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Born November 28, 1914, one of nine children of a poor family in Brooklyn, Owen Dodson enjoyed national and international recognition- By the time of his death in 1983, he had published three volumes of poetry and had been anthologized in more than sixty texts and translated into six foreign languages. Twice he was invited to read his poems before the Library of Congress. Richard Eberhart, Pulitzer-winning poet, named Dodson "the best Negro poet in the United States." Time magazine called his poetry "peer to Frost and Carl Sandburg and other white American poets." George Plimpton awarded Dodson's story "The Summer Fire" a Paris Review prize. Dodson's first novel, Boy at the Window, went through three editions. He was awarded two honorary doctorates of letters. President Johnson invited Dodson to the White House. He received Guggenheim, Rosenwald, and Rockefeller grants. However, his greatest love was theater, and some of his best writing was for that medium. By the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, several American poets had attempted verse plays—William Vaughn Moody and Edwin Arlington Robinson among them—but their stage verse ran closer to rhetoric, and the craft of playwriting escaped them. Dramatists Eugene O'Neill

OWEN VINCENT DODSON

and Maxwell Anderson mastered the art of theater, but when they attempted to soar in language, they had no wings. One of the very first to produce poetry rich in image and subtle in rhythm and voice for the theater, along with Edna St. Vincent Millay, was Owen Dodson. His verse drama Divine Comedy, produced at the Yale Drama School in 1938, stands as a pioneer American effort to have characters speak convincingly in dramatic verse. In 1939, Dodson's second full-length play, Garden of Time, received mainstage production at the Drama School. This verse drama adapted the Medea story to the American South and was staged a second time by Dodson himself at the American Negro Theatre in 1945. Bayou Legend, his verse adaption of Peer Gynt set in the Louisiana Cajun country, premiered at Howard University in 1948. Over the years, he wrote thirty-seven plays and operas. Twenty-seven have been produced, two at the Kennedy Center. In his career, Dodson wrote, directed, or acted in more than three hundred productions. Because of his influence in black drama, he became known as the dean of black theater. Dodson's one-act The Shining Town, set during the Depression of the 1930s, dramatizes the domestic "slave market" in a subway station at 167th Street and Jerome Avenue in the Bronx. Here, to support their families, black women auctioned themselves to white women for day work. Under the knife of the Depression, the women underbid one another, often working for ten or fifteen cents an hour. Whether or not Dodson witnessed these auctions in person, he had heard black women speak of them, and he knew the bitterness of those who toiled in domestic service. His play was perhaps too damning of the white society in 1937 to receive a production at Yale. References Dodson, Owen. "The Ballad of Dorrie Miller." Theatre Arts 27 (July 1943): 436.

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— . Boy at the Window. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1951. Republished as When the Trees Were Green. New York: Popular Library, 1967. — . "College Troopers Abroad." Negro Digest (April 1950): 47-49.

8

— . "Color USA." Twice a Year 14-15 (Fall 1946Winter 1947): 354-64. — . Come Home Early, Child. New York: Popular Library, 1977. — . The Confession Stone. Toronto: Leeds Music, 1968. Revised and enlarged as The Confession Stone: Song Cycles. London: Paul Breman, Heritage Series, No. 13, 1970. — . "Divine Comedy." Black Theater USA. Hatch, James V. and Ted Shine, eds. New York: Free Press, 1974. — . "Everybody Join Hands." Theatre Arts 27 (September 1943): 555-65. — . The Harlem Book of the Dead, with Camille Billops and James Van Der Zee. New York: Morgan and Morgan, 1978. — . "Playwrights in Dark Glasses." Negro Digest 17 (April 1968): 31-36. — . Powerful Long Ladder. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1946. Reissued New York: Noonday Press, 1970. — . "Who Has Seen the Wind?" series. Black American Literature Forum 11 (Fall 1977): 108-16; 13 (Spring 1979): 20-23; 14 (Summer 1980): 54-59. — . "Owen Dodson." Dictionary of Literary Biography. Detroit: Gale Research, 1989. — . "Owen Vincent Dodson." World Authors. New York: H. W. Wilson, 1989.

OWEN VINCENT DODSON

-. Rush, Theressa, Carol Myers, and Esther Arata. Black American Writers Past and Present Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1975, pp. 2 2 4 26. — . Turner, Darwin. "Bayou Legend." Black Drama in America: An Anthology. Greenwich, Conn.: Fawcett Books, 1971, pp. 205-95.

331

The Shining Town Owen Vincent Dodson 1

332

This is not the shining town. It is a subway station in the Bronx on the Broadway 7th Avenue line in New York City. The station is very shallow and very gloomy. The ceiling seems to press down and the walls press inward. Its more like a prison than a subway station. The back wall is partly posters advertising banks, toothpaste, shoe polish, and gum, and partly iron bars. There is a slot machine dividing the wall and the bars. To the right upstage is a door marked WOMEN, next to it a large opening, from which no light emerges, which leads down to the train platform. At the left upstage is a turnstile, and bars lead from there to the proscenium. In front of these bars is a bench. As the curtain rises there is no sound. A Negro woman is sitting huddled on a bench at back. Then we hear her cough—and again and again. Little coughs like a padded hammer hitting at a peg. Silence. Someone begins to sing: Flowers in the Springtime, Flowers, flowers, flowers. Half a dozen for a dime, Flowers, flowers, flowers.

THE SHINING TOWN

It is the FLOWER MAN. He comes through the turnstile. He carries a collapsible table under one arm and a large box under the other. He opens the table and from the box he takes flowers. As he arranges the daffodils and roses he continues his song. Then he notices the woman in the corner. FLOWER MAN:

(cheerily) Good mornin'.

(For an answer he gets only the cough, cough. He shrugs his shoulders and continues his song. In the distance you hear the brazen mechanical music of an incoming train. The CLEANING MAN who has appeared behind the bars at back, with broom and pail stands laughing at the FLOWER MAN singing against the train music) CLEANING MAN: (pointing to the "black opening") A symphony orchestra to accompany ya! (Takes out his watch) Six-thirty, well, well, Caruso ya singin' on time. FLOWER MAN: (cheerily) The opera asked me to do a number. I told 'em I had flowers to sell. Flowers is my trade, I said. CLEANING MAN: (sweeping up a pile of dirt) Oh yeah sure! Where ya get all 'em fascinatin' songs? FLOWER MAN: I made that one up myself, last night. Makin' up songs passes the time sort of. CLEANING MAN: Yeah! An' peoplell pass you. (comes under the turnstile) FLOWER MAN: Nearly finished? CLEANING MAN: Finished my foot! I got other stations. It gives me a sick feelin' in my stomach to clean up this stinkin' mess every morning'. The God-damned spit an' the urine stench in the corners. FLOWER MAN: Ya won't get no place talkin' that tripe. At least ya got a steady job—with pension an' hours that's human an' everythin'. CLEANING MAN: Oh yeah sure. It's just hotsy-totsy. I feel like Jesus Christ cleanin' up the world—sure!

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON FLOWER MAN: 1 ain't got no thin' an' ya don't hear me speakin' from no soap box. Ya know—there's somethin' about flowers that . . . CLEANING MAN: I know: flowers is your trade—but let me tell ya—they won't be ya trade for long. FLOWER BIAN: Why master mind? CLEANING VULNS (sweeping) 'Cause I read where the government's thinkin' iDout bakin' flowers into the walls. Murals! That's it—murals'll put ya out of business. Ya better start lookin' for another job. FLOWER MAN: Huh. CLEANING MAN: Maybe

ya can sell shoelaces. (angrily) Flowers is my trade. I used to have a store once. Now I only got a stand in a dirty subway. But flowers is . . . CLEANING MAN: . . . Your trade. FLOWER MAN: Right! CLEANING MAN: Oh yeah sure. Ya gettin' up in the world. Wait till next year. FLOWER MAN: I figure I ain't so bad off. Where I see them black women who comes in here to auction off jobs every mornin', I figure I ain't doin' so bad. A lot of us ain't. People's still got courage. CLEANING MAN: Maybe ya right but I can't say no thin' for the human race 'cept that it's gettin' dirtier. FLOWER BIAN: It's flowers ya need. Everybody ought to change when Spring comes. I depend on Spring, sorta to live. People buys more flowers then. CLEANING MAN: GO tell ya Aunt Fanny! Them flowers is grimy as hell. Ya can't keep no flowers in no station like this one. FLOWER BIAN: That's just what I been doin'. CLEANING BIAN: Oh yeah sure. An' look at 'em. They ain't much for decoration. Ya keep takin' the petals off the roses to make 'em look like buds. An' the more petals ya take off the faster they dry up. Anyway if ya gotta sell flowers this ain't the station to sell 'em in. The express trains shoot right through. An' no trains stop here much. FLOWER MAN:

THE SHINING TOWN FLOWER MAN: That's right. Them big stations is so crowded, everybody's bumped together. They don't see me or hear my song. They rushes so there no time to stop. CLEANING MAN: Boy, what a reason!

(The woman in the corner gives her cough-cough. The CLEANING MAN points to her. The FLOWER MAN shrugs his shoulders) FLOWER MAN: NO talkie boss. She must be CLEANING MAN: She ain't crazy if she won't

zipped. talk. She's

wise as hell!—sure. (A well-dressed MAN comes through the turnstile. Goes over to the slot machine) MAN:

nickel?

(to FLOWER MAN) Have you five pennies for a

FLOWER MAN: I ain't made no money yet this mornin', Mister. MAN: In business you should have change. FLOWER MAN: Mister, when ya ain't made no money, ya can't make change. Do ya wanna flower? MAN: Hell no! (walks down the "black opening") FLOWER MAN: Did ya get that? CLEANING MAN: Yeah. Everybody's brothers.

(Train music. The FLOWER MAN begins to sing) FLOWER MAN:

Flowers in the Springtime, Flowers, flowers, flowers Half a dozen for a dime, (etc.) (MRS. GANTRY, an old Irish woman, comes in from black opening. She carries a bag)

the

GANTRY: NOW there's a song for the mornin'. Good day to ya both. Ya flowers look nice an' fresh this fine Spring mornin'. FLOWER MAN: I been doctorin' 'em up a bit. (CLEANING MAN

grunts a laugh)

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s. GANTRY: {to CLEANING MAN) Still in a huff over your condition? CLEANING MAN: Yep, Madame, I'm still cleanin' up the dirt. mis. GANTRY: Aye. It's a hard life but there ain't nothin' to do but what ya can. CLEANING MAN: That's one way of puttin' it. Well I gotta get to my next station. Goodby, Gantry. I hope ya Gypsy costume's a success today. MRS. GANTRY: I'll do me best. CLEANING MAN: (grunts a laugh) An' that ain't none too good, (dashes off with cleaning things) MRS. GANTRY: The nerve of that man. If me hands an' knees wasn't so stiff I'd have knocked him down flatter than a pancake for speakin' to me in that fashion. Well I gotta change. It's about time for me to be walkin' up an' down. (Train music) How is it the women ain't gathered yet for the mornin's auction? FLOWER MAN: Maybe you're early. MRS. GANTRY: Poor wretched creatures that they are. Aye, glad I am it wasn't me created the world. I'd have shot meself straight through the head by now. (she goes in the door marked WOMENJ FLOWER MAN: (singing) Flowers in the Springtime, Flowers, flowers, flowers, Half a dozen for a dime. Flowers, flowers, flowers.

(Two Negro women come from the black opening. One has a child of about eight with her. The^r faces are tired, resigned faces) FLOWER MAN: (to the SMITH,) Good mornin'.

fatter of the two women, MRS.

MRS. SMITH: I hates ta say it but I ain't so good this mornin'. That I know. The neuralgia was more than a game of tiddily-winks last night. FLOWER MAN: You're walkin' pretty jaunty.

THE SHINING TOWN

3. SMITH: Ya gotta walk spry no madder how ya feels. FLOWER MAN: There's some thin' in that. MRS. SMITH: YOU tellin' me. (ABBY huddles close to her mother) ABBT: It's dark in here Mama. I don't like it here Mama. MRS. BROWN: That's all right honey. I knows it ain't so nice. ABBT: (spying the flowers) Mama, kin I have a flower? s. BROWN: Hush, chile. Ya knows I can't buy you no flower. (ABBY

gets up to inspect the/lower

MRS. SMITH: (TO FLOWER MANJ

stand)

Have any of the women

bin in yet? FLOWER MAN:

Nobody so far.

has gone over slowly to the woman in the corner. The woman gives her tap, tap of a cough and ABBY recoils and begins crying) (ABBY

MRS. BROWN: Abby, honey. Don't carr' on that way. What in the world's the madder with you chile?

(ABBY points to the woman in the corner) s. BROWN: (to the woman in the corner) You'll have to 'cuse Abby. She's curious. She don't mean nothin'. (The woman gives her tap, tap cough, MRS. BROWN looks at her curiously and then turns to ABBY, who is whimpering) BROWN: Never mind, honey. ABBT: I don't like it here Mama. It's

dark a n ' . . . (she looks at the woman in the corner and puts her head in her mother's lap) MRS. SMITH: (to FLOWER MANJ Ya sure no jobs been gotten yet? FLOWER MAN: I been here since six-thirty. You're the first.

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON

, SMITH: We may have luck ridin' on our heels yet, Mis' Brown. mis. BROWN: This sure is a out-of-the-way station. I never seen a station that looked so out of things. MRS. SMITH: I hear ya sayin' it. It's a hole in the ground but we gets jobs here. MRS. BROWN: What ya do, just sit an' wait? MRS. SMITH: YOU done grasped the idea. J u s t sit an' wait. BIRS. BROWN: DO ya reckon I'll really land a job? MRS. SMITH: I kin see you ain't been fishin' in this pond long. That I knows. Ever been in the other stations? MRS. BROWN: NO. (ABBY whimpers) ABBT: Mama, I'm scared. BIRS. BROWN: There ain't no call to be scared, (to MRS. SMITHJ I sure needs a job this one day. All the white folks I uster do days work for done fired they help. They does they work themselves. They ain't so high. ants, SMITH: Nobody ever said they was. MRS. BROWN: SO I says this mornin', I says to myself, Jeanie you go up to one of them stations where they gets jobs. You go an grab yourself a bit of days work. I told ma husband I was comin' but he rolled over in the bed an' just grunted. BIRS. SMITH: I hear ya tellin' it. Too bad ya had ta bring that chile all this way. BIRS. BROWN: I had ta wake her up, poor lamb, 'cause there's no leavin' her home with ma husband. She's gettin' big ya know. SMITH: Don't she go to school? 3. BROWN: She ain't smart enough; so they tells me up at the school. BIRS. SMITH: YOU bear your trouble like a saint. I'd never have knowed you was under the yoke. I'd never have knowed it. BIRS. BROWN: Like a saint. Only I got yet to see that milk an' honey.

THE SHINING TOWN

truth.

SMITH:

(laughing)

That's the Lawd's living

MRS. BROWN: Ma husband now, he thinks I'm a natural born fool to go out workin\ "Let the governamint do the work," he says. But bless ma soul Mis' Smith, I don't put no stock in the governamint relief—'cause it pay no interest in the long run. It follow ya like a shadow the rest of ya life. That's what I told him just like I'm talkin' now. MRS. SMITH: I kin just hear ya sayin' it. (train music) They'll be more comin' on that train, (sitting down by child) My, but ain't she bony. MRS. BROWN: I does the best I can. SMITH: Mercy Lawd. When did ya eat last? 3. BROWN: We don't eat much but we eats regular. SMITH: I hear ya sayin' it. I'd give ya somethin' but I had only the one five cents to get here. MRS. BROWN: HOW ya gonna git home, if ya don't land a job? MRS. SMITH: Most of us that comes here has only the five cents an' a hope. If the hope don't come there's always the other side of the tracks an' a train. We just crosses over. It's as easy as tyin' a shoelace. (ABBY begins to stir and whimper. The woman in the corner gives her tap, tap cough, ABBY reacts) MRS. BROWN: Hush,

honey. I'm hungry. MRS. BROWN: Ya just had breakfast, chile. ABBY: I'm hungry now, Mama. MRS. BROWN: Hush, chile, hush. ABBY: It's dark here, Mama. MRS. BROWN: Yes, honey. ABBY: Mama, can I walk down an' watch the trains go by an' look at the big pictures? MRS. BROWN: Yes, honey. Don't go near the tracks. ABBY: Mama

(MRS. GANTRY comes out of the WOMEN door in a Gypsy costume. The red of the dress is Jaded and the yellow

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON

sash is grimy. On her head is a green handkerchief. On her breast and back a sign advertising an eating place. The eating place has as its motto: Make a Wish, ABBY almost bumps into her) GANTRY: Well, well little lady. Watch your step. You'll crash into more than me one of these days. MRS. BROWN: Abby, watch where you're goin\ How many times does I have to tell you? (ABBY noticing the Gypsy costume, giggles and goes out through the black opening)

s. GANTRY: Ya see she's laughin' at me Gypsy rig. It is a sight for sore eyes. Not even a saint would deny that. And how are you this fine Spring mornin', Mrs. Smith? MRS. SMITH: Not up an' not down, Mis' Gantry. Spring ain't Spring no more. It seem like the seasons come an' go an' I'm just the same. That I knows. MRS. GANTRY: Aye, but it's a great relief to get from under rags. It's more like livin' to see some green. Ain't it? Ain't it, Flower Man? FLOWER MAN: (who has been dozing, wakes with a start) Buy a flower, lady? MRS. GANTRY: Even if ya don't sell ya flowers ya might watch the sights now. FLOWER MAN: The nap set me up for the day. MRS. GANTRY: (to MRS. SMITHJ An' is this a new friend ya brought with ya this mornin'? MRS. SMITH: Mis' Gantry, meet Mis' Brown, (exchange of greetings) MRS. GANTRY: Was that ya little girl I nearly knocked down a while back? (train music) MRS. BROWN: Yes . . .

MRS. SMITH: (interrupting) I met Mis' Brown. She come ta find a job. MRS. GANTRY: Blessed Mary an' she brought the young thing with her.

THE SHINING TOWN

MRS. SMITH: She couldn't leave her ta home. Her husband, ya know. s. BROWN: Please, Mis' Smith! SMITH: It's all right, Mis' Brown. Mis' Gantry here is a good friend. Sometime she even brings us a snack from the tea room while we's waitin'. MRS. GANTRY: It's a long day ya women have. From sun up to sun settin'. (A young GIRL and BOY in evening clothes come from the black opening, giggling) GIRL: YOU know, we shouldn't have stayed as late as this. BOY: AS early you mean. It was one of your larks. GIRL: Just the same we shouldn't have stayed. BOY: Don't start that all over again. God but my head aches. FLOWER MAN: Buy a flower Mister? Flowers, flowers. Buy a flower. BOY: (to GIRLJ Want one? GIRL: I only want a good downy bed. (they go

through the turnstile) MRS. SMITH: NOW

about.

there's somethin' to tell Jesus

FLOWER MAN: I guess

it's too early for flowers. s. GANTRY: There, there, anytime's flower time.

(Two wretched Negro women come in and sit down quietly by the woman in the corner. The woman in the corner coughs: tap, tap. After a while the woman closest to her gets up and moves to another place) MRS. GANTRY: Well I should be startin' on me walking tour. Ya know, Mrs. Smith almost every mornin' I say to meself, maybe this'll be the last, Annie. But I'm always here changin' me clothes so that I won't have to walk the extra blocks so early in the mornin'. Its a pretty circle. SMITH: Ya ain't heard from ya son then.

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON GANTRY: Somtimes I think hell never send the money for me to go home. Home—what a glory dream that is now. MRS. BROWN: We's home Mis' Gantry, but it ain't much. MRS. GANTRY: Well good day. (begins to walk off. She gives a little cry) Oh, me knee, me knee. FLOWER MAN: Isn't your knee any better since ya been takin' that new medicine. MRS. GANTRY: Any better! It's the stiffness of the joints I'm gonna die of: this paradin' up an' down the streets all day long; that an' a broken heart. Not ever to see me country again with the mist risin' from the fields in the mornin' like smoke an' the great scent the earth sends up. Nothin' like this gloomy place or the streets with the cars honkin' holy hell in me ears. MRS. SMITH: I can hear ya recitin' it. You'll get there someday, Mis' Gantry. MRS. GANTRY: Maybe, Mrs. Smith, maybe but now it's all like a dream. Just a dream. An' maybe that's why I keep on just walkin' up an' down. Like a paycock. Up an' down, (she limps off) MRS. BROWN: Poor soul. She seems a nice lady. MRS. SMITH: She is, bless her heart, she is that. (FLOWER MAN begins singing as the brazen music of a train is heard) MRS. BROWN: Those trains rumblin' in. Rumblin' in. An' the trains that pass an' don't stop. An' the dark. No wonder Abby's afraid, (she calls weakly) Abby. MRS. SMITH: (to distract MRS. BROWNJ Ah he sings like a angel of the Lawd. Just like an angel. Don't he, Mis' Brown, (MRS. BROWN nods) A new song every blessed week. FLOWER MAN: It passes the time. The days tip-toe by, so to speak. So I passes the time with a song. MRS. SMITH: YOU got the knack of it. That I know. Mis' Brown, don't take on so.

THE SHINING TOWN BROWN: An' you been comin's here every mornin\ I don't know how you done stood it. MRS. SMITH: We S got ta stand what we's got ta stand. That's the Lord's living truth. That I know. MRS. BROWN: I don't think I could stand it long. (MRS. PETERSON and MRS. HICKS come from the black opening, MRS. PETERSON is a robust corny woman, MRS. HICKS is small) PETERSON: Howdy, Mis' Smith. J u s t bumped into a little girl. Looked like a stray pussy cat—lookin' at the posters an' suckin her thumb like it was a peppermint stick. MRS. BROWN: That was Abby. Lawd, that chile mosey along like she was at a picnic. Lemme go find her. MRS. PETERSON:

Abby?

MRS. SMITH: That Mis' Brown's baby. Mis' Brown, Mis' Peterson, Mis' Hicks. MRS. PETERSON: Glad ta shake ya hand. MRS. BROWN: 'Cuse me. (she goes out) MRS. SMITH: Children sure can worry the soul case out of ya. MRS. PETERSON: I never had none. They's a curse in this world. 3. SMITH: The Lawd wills plenty on us. 9. PETERSON: This life ain't no soft cushion. SMITH: Especially for us. (seeing MRS. HICKS sitting on a bench sobbing) What's wrong with Mis' Hicks? She don't seem up top this mornin'. 9. HICKS: What am I a-gonna do! SMITH: What's wrong, Mis' Hicks? MRS. PETERSON: She was dispossessed last night. She bin ridin' up an' down the subway all night. MRS. SMITH: I hear ya saying it. MRS. HICKS: Lawd, what am I a-gonna do? What, Lawd, what? MRS. SMITH: You'll get a job. I knows it. I feels it in ma bones like a omen. That I do.

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON (MRS. BROWN comes up from the opening with ABBY. She plunks down and sits with her) MRS. BROWN: Honey chile, now mind me. Sit there an' be quiet. ABBY: It's dark. It's still dark, Mama. I'm hungry and tired too. MRS. SMITH: Hungry an' tired at her age. I hear her talkin'. (to MRS. PETERSON about MRS. HICKSJ Can't she get relief? MRS. PETERSON: YOU knows as well as I does that ya can't get no relief at twelve o'clock midnight. Her landlady just throwed her plunk out on the street. Besides, she got a son who's workin' an' not given' her one penny. Not one cent. Children's a curse. She say there's no way out for her. MRS. SMITH: Mercy savior. I wonder sometime if we could go on if they wasn't no end. No shining town after this life, like the preacher say. I count folks lucky that gets there while they's young. MRS. PETERSON: If I had ma way they would be no more children. No more cryin' an' no more mouths to feed. MRS. BROWN: I don't mind, Abby. I don't know what I'd do without her. Some of me that's gonna do better than I done. MRS. PETERSON: You'se mighty optomistic! That's all I got ta say bout it. (MRS. HICKS

is sobbing still)

MRS. PETERSON: Stop cryin'—you too meek. You lays down an' stay quiet like a chile with a bottle. I'd get some relief if I was you. Son or no son. I'd go ta the mayor an' worry him on the throne of grace, if I wanted some of the ole relief. SMITH: YOU couldn't get ta the mayor. PETERSON: Oh couldn't I. I'd make a squawk that you'd hear from the Bronx to the Battery. SMITH: I kin just hear ya yellin' it.

THE SHINING TOWN MRS. PETERSON: Id tell him he was just as crooked as a ram's horn. Fd lean over his desk an' give him a piece of ma mind. I'd get some of that ole relief all right. I wouldn't miss it. MRS. BROWN: Oh, the bugger with that kind of talk, Mis' Peterson. MRS. PETERSON: YOU people too meek. MRS HICKS: (sobbing) I ain't got no home but a subway train. Nothin' but a dirty ole subway train. Ole Christ Jesus, what am I a-gonna do? MRS. BROWN: (cornforting her) Let it all out, honey. That's right, you'll feel much better. MRS. PETERSON: Don't encourage that weakness, Mis' Brown. MRS. SMITH: (to MRS. HICKSJ The jobll be comin' along before ya can say scat kiss ma foot. MRS. PETERSON: (at back bars) I done it. Here they comes.

(The woman in the corner gives her tap, tap, tap, cough) 3. PETERSON: What that? 3. SMITH: I don't know. She ain't said skidoo since I bin here. MRS. PETERSON: Moses leader, (going to woman in the corner) You sick, sister? WOMAN-IN-CORNER: Them flowers look nice down here. It's mighty dark down here. (ABBY begins to cry. WOMAN-IN-CORNER coughs: tap, tap, tap. There is a silence and all the women look at her) ABBT:

stairs.

Mama, Mama, let's go upstairs. It's light up-

BROWN: Honey, honey hush, we's goin' soon, soon honey, hush. MRS. PETERSON: Don't know what's the madder today but you folks is sure a queer lot.

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MRS. BROWN: (to MRS. HICKSJ Now you look perky. No use you showin' the white folks you ain't on the solid rock. MRS. HICKS: I'll try. I gotta get a job today. MRS. BROWN: YOU just look bright. MRS. SMITH: I hopes they hearts open today 'cause Mis' Hicks an' Mis' Brown needs more than carfare money. MRS. PETERSON: / needs more today too. MRS. SMITH: This chicken-feed pay make ya get almost downright downhearted. MRS. PETERSON: Never thought I'd hear ya sayin' that. MRS. SMITH: When I see these poor women an' think of what's in store for them makes me feel like gettin' on ma knees an' prayin' Jesus. MRS. BROWN: Abby, wouldn't ya like to take a walk down there again an' see the pictures? ABBY: I seen all the pictures, Mama. MRS. BROWN: GO down again, honey, an' try ta read what it say under the pictures. ABBY: Yes, Mama. MRS. BROWN: An when ya comes back we's goin' upstairs an' maybe I'll buy you somethin'. ABBY: Somethin' ta eat, Mama. MRS. BROWN: Somethin' that'll make ya feel much, much bedder, sugar plum. (ABBY runs down the black opening, singing in a high shrill voice:

London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down . . . London bridge is falling down, My fair lady. Gold an' silver will not do . . .

and Jar off: Take a key an' lock her up, My fair lady . . . )

THE SHINING TOWN

s. SMITH: Why ya sendin' that chile away? You knows she's scared. MRS. BROWN: I don't want her to see the job gettin'. Children remembers things. MRS. PETERSON: Shell learn sooner or later. MRS. BROWN: Not ma Abby. MRS. PETERSON: Ma mama probably said that *bout me once. MRS. SMITH: Look at the Flower Man asleep. Again— Lawd today. 9. PETERSON: He ain't missin' much. 9. SMITH: Where them women you saw comin'? Lord today! You ain't got no more eyes than a blind mole in winter. MRS. PETERSON: I saw them. Mis' Random an' a couple of others. (Train music rushes by. FLOWER MAN wakes up with a start and begins singing his song. He looks embarrassed. The women are amused) 9. SMITH: HOW'S business? FLOWER MAN: I don't know why

I can't keep awake. Spring fever, I guess. MRS. PETERSON: I suppose you 'spect the customers ta come an' wake ya up an' say, "I wants a flower, Mister, please sir." You an' your flowers sleepin' time away. (she is standing near the black opening. A woman— well-dressed—comes up and her coat brushes against MRS. PETERSON. The woman brushes her coat off and goes to FLOWER MANjorflowers. Meanwhile MRS. PETERSON letS

OUt)

MRS. PETERSON: DO ya see that huzzy brushin' off her coat? (calls to woman) Just who does ya think ya is anyway? I'm just as good as you is so there. Next time ya come ya bedder bring a whisk broom. (The woman is silent. She takes her flowers and goes off. The FLOWER MAN is embarrassed) MRS. BROWN: NOW Mis' Peterson, don't get ya nanny up. We's got more important things to tend to.

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON MRS. PETERSON: YOU just ain't got no pride. That's what's wrong with the whole race. No pride. MRS. BROWN: Mis' Peterson—I learned long ago that pride an' necessity don't mix like oil an' water. MRS. SMITH: It's all 'cordin' ta the occasion. MRS. PETERSON: Pride is all I gots an' I'll stick ta it even if I don't get another mouthful. So there. MRS. BROWN: Calm yaself, Mis' Peterson. Calm yaself—save the big-tongue talkin' for the big-tongue talkin' time. MRS. HICKS: I ain't got no home but a subway train. Christ Jesus no home but a dirty ole subway train. MRS. PETERSON: You ain't said nothin' but that since I met you. Change ya line, Mis' Hicks. Them white folks doesn't want moanin', they wants work. Elbow grease Mis' Hicks, plain elbow grease! MRS. SMITH: Mis' Peterson, stop lettin' the words fly out ta no purpose. MRS. PETERSON: I'se tryin' ta pound some sense into ya heads. SMITH: Save ya sense for yourself. 3. PETERSON: Don't talk ta me like that. . . RANDOM: (appearing behind the bars at back. There are three other women with her—MRS. KLEIN, MRS. FLEMING, and MRS. LINKJ Ladies, ladies. . . . I was wonder in' when I could get a word in hardly. MRS. PETERSON: We's all attention. , RANDOM: There ain't so many here today hardly? PETERSON: They'll be tricklin' in. 3. RANDOM: We'll wait for a few more. MRS. SMITH: (to MRS. BROWNJ That's so's they kin have more ta pick from. Gettin' um cheaper. MRS. RANDOM: We're poor people same as you. We can't afford to pay too much. MRS. SMITH:

An' we can't afford ta take too little.

(FLOWER MAN tries

to get some trade)

FLOWER MAN: (singing)

Flowers in the Springtime . . .

THE SHINING TOWN MRS. RANDOM: We don't want none. MRS. KLEIN: I want some. A half

roses there.

Save your breath. a dozen of them

MRS. RANDOM: Rose, you don't need no flowers. They aren't fresh anyway. No use encouragin' beggars. FLOWER MAN: I ain't no beggar. I got a legitimate business. Flowers is my trade. I give merchandise for the money I get. MRS. RANDOM: Rose—those old flowers ain't fit for nowhere but a subway. FLOWER MAN: YOU could mind your own business. MRS. SMITH: I don't think it's nice of ya, Mis' Random, to spoil his business. Them flowers ain't so fresh as some. But they's cheap. Ya can't ask for no bedder for the price. MRS. PETERSON: NOW you'se star tin' the big-tongue rollin'. MRS. RANDOM: Anyone who comes beggin' for a job needn't be so smart hardly. (MRS. SMITH just

grunts

dissatisfaction)

MRS. RANDOM: NOW I got eight rooms to be cleaned an' twelve windows. What will you do it for ladies? MRS. HICKS: Three-fifty m'am. MRS. RANDOM: Three dollars. And where'd you think I'd get three dollars hardly—I'd like to know. 3. PETERSON: (out loud) Two dollars, Mis' Random. s. RANDOM: YOU bleed my pocketbook. 1ST NEGRO WOMAN: 111 do it for one dollar an' seventy cents. MRS. RANDOM: You're not doin' me a favor hardly. MRS. PETERSON: One dollar an' a half. 1ST NEGRO WOMAN: One dollar an' forty-five cents. MRS. RANDOM: You're so small. Can you work hard? 1ST NEGRO WOMAN: I kin work as well as the best of 'em. MRS. RANDOM: Doesn't no one else want honest work? 9. SMITH: (to MRS. BROWNJ Honest!

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON

3. RANDOM: I'm waitin', ladies. s. PETERSON: You won't find no bedder or stronger than me, Mis' Random. MRS. RANDOM: Maybe youll sweep up the cellar a bit too. MRS. PETERSON: I kin do that. MRS. RANDOM: Come along then. (MRS. PETERSON looks triumphantly about her and starts to walk through the turnstile, WOMAN-IN-CORNER gets up and goes to the bars while everyone is staring at her) WOMAN-IN-CORNER: 111

do it for ten cents lady. MRS. PETERSON: She's crazy. MRS. RANDOM: Come along, Mrs. Peterson. MRS. PETERSON: Yes,

Mam.

(They go off, MRS. PETERSON behind MRS. RANDOMJ SMITH: An' I thought she still had her pride. KLEIN: It ain't much, ladies. A small tub

of clothes, two floors scrubbed an' the bathroom. A little bit, ladies. Only a few hours work, ladies. Not much. MRS. HICKS: TWO dollars. 2ND NEGRO WOBIAN: One dollar ninety cents. MRS. KLEIN: A little bit, ladies. Such a small amount you could finish in a hour, maybe just a little more ladies. 1ST NEGRO WOBIAN: One dollar seventy-five cents. 2ND NEGRO WOBIAN: One dollar sixty-five. MRS. HICKS: Sixty cents. MRS. KLEIN: Such prices? MRS. BROWN: One dollar an' a half. 2ND NEGRO WOBIAN: One dollar forty cents. 1ST NEGRO WOBIAN: One dollar forty cents. 2ND NEGRO WOMAN: One dollar an' thirty. BIRS. KLEIN: This is outrageous, ladies. So much money. A little work. A little bit, ladies.

THE SHINING TOWN WOMAN-IN-CORITOR:

111 do it for ten cents.

(No one pays any attention to her this time. She gives her tap-tap-tap cough and sits down) 1ST NEGRO WOMAN: One

dollar an' fifteen cents. 2ND NEGRO WOMAN: One dollar. (ABBY comes

up the steps and skips to her mother)

ABBY: Mama,

I'm hungry. honey. Go over there an' sit down, chile. Mama's busy. MRS. KLEIN: Ladies, do you want the job? MRS. HICKS: Ninety cents. 1ST NEGRO WOMAN: Seventy-five cents. ABBY: Mama, what you buyin'? MRS. SMITH: (goes to ABBY) Did ya see the pictures? ABBY: Yes there was one with . . . MRS. KLEIN: Well, ladies! ABBY: Mama? MRS. BROWN: Sixty cents. Do I get the job? ABBY: Mama, Mama! MRS. KLEIN: (to MRS. SMITHJ Don't you want work, Mrs.? There might be a dress if you'd do it for fifty cents. MRS. SMITH: One hour ago, lady, I'd have taken ya fifty cents an' ya ole dress an' cleaned up ya house like it was heaven. But now I don't want ya dress 'cause it probably ain't no good nohow. An' as for the fifty cents, I don't know where they is another fifty cents for me. But that don't madder none. I won't be a slave again. I won't be a slave again no madder what. I hope ya hears me sayin' it. MRS. KLEIN: This is honest work. If you don't want it, then stay out of this. s. SMITH: YOU asked me, lady. BROWN: I'll take the job. (she goes over and takes ABBY by the hand, pauses by Mrs. Smith) I gotta MRS. BROWN: Yes,

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OWEN VINCENT DODSON

bring home somethin'. I shouldn't do this but I ain't got no pride, I only got Abby. Goodby, Mis' Smith. MRS. SMITH: I understands for you. Goodby. (MRS. BROWN starts

to walk to the turnstile)

MRS. KLEIN: Are you coming or should I give the job to somebody else? MRS. BROWN: I'm com in'. MRS. FLEMING: (steps up to bars) I only got a small days work. A few hours only. It ain't much, ladies, just a few floors . . . ABBY: Mama, are we goin' upstairs? Are we goin' up where it's light? MRS. BROWN: Yes chile, we's goin up . . . where . . . it's . . . light . . .

(They are gone. MRS. FLEMING continues) MRS. FLEMING: . . . to be scrubbed. The paint needs washin', it ain't very dirty . . . 1 S T NEGRO WOMAN: One dollar— MRS. HICKS: Ninety cents.

(A train roars in with a great musical crash) FLOWER MAN: Buy flowers, flowers, flowers cheap. Buy flowers cheap . . .

(Curtain)

1

Abram Hill (1911-1986) A playwright who became the founder of the American Negro Theatre, Abram Hill was born in 1911 in Atlanta, Georgia, one of five children fathered by a railroad fireman who worked on the Atlanta-Washington run. When he was seven, he appeared on the stage of nearby Morehouse College in an amateur production that whetted his appetite for theater. In 1925, his parents moved to New York so that young Abe could enjoy greater educational opportunities. In 1929, he was graduated from De Witt Clinton High School and attended The City College of New York as a premedical student for two years (1930 to 1932). During those early years, Hill worked as an elevator operator in Macy's, a hotel clerk, a sandhog, a factory hand, and a delivery man. In 1932, Hill became drama coach at St. Philip's Protestant Church and the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem. In 1934, he entered Lincoln University to continue his medical studies but was drawn toward English and drama by one of his teachers, J. Newton Hill, who encouraged him to work in the theater there. After receiving his degree, he taught at Lincoln for a semester. Leaving the university, Hill joined the Federal Theatre Project under the direction of Hallie Flanagan. He was assigned to write "the case history of the Negro" 3 5 3

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in the Living Newspaper style originated by the Federal Theatre. His first version, Liberty Deferred, could not be produced because Congress cut funding to the theater. For a time, he read and reviewed plays dealing with black life and characters. After writing Liberty Deferred with John Silvera (1936) and Stealing Lightning in 1937, Hill's three-act play Hells Half Acre, inspired by his memory of slave stories, was produced by the Unity Players in the Bronx and by Joseph Ornato. Hill continued his growth in drama by studying at the New School under John Gassner on a scholarship from Theresa Helbrun of the Theatre Guild, who was greatly impressed by his work. When the Federal Theatre was dissolved in 1939, Hill sought work on the Broadway stage, without success. Harlem provided an alternative. At the time, the Rose McClendon Players under the direction of Dick Campbell dominated the scene. Hill showed his latest play, On Strivers Row, to Campbell, and after some revision, the Players produced it in 1939 for sixteen nights. Enacted by the newly founded American Negro Theatre the following year, it ran for 101 performances, an ANT record for that time. (In the script version owned by Hill's widow, the title has no apostrophe.) In that milieu, Hill met playwrights Hughes Allison, Theodore Ward, Powell Lindsay, Langston Hughes, and George Norford. They decided to create a theatrical group called the Negro Playwrights Company, opening with Theodore Ward's Big White Fog. But before the organization got off the ground, Hill withdrew because he felt that the group preferred propaganda over artistic integrity. The following year, Hill teamed up with Frederick O'Neal, founder of the Aldridge Players, the successful black community theater in St. Louis. They shared the conviction that black theater could be a cooperative venture free of the star system, with a training program that would emphasize all phases of theatrical activity, not acting alone. O'Neal was named manager, Hill was director, and the American Negro Theatre was born in a basement of a Harlem branch library.

1

ABRAM HILL

Among its early productions was On Strivers Row. When a lack of suitable material threatened the agenda of the workshop, Hill began to adapt other plays to his needs. Among them was an unproduced work by Philip Yordan about Polish-Americans. Harry Wagstaff Gribble consented to direct it, and Hill, assisted by him, added a prologue and an epilogue, made a few other changes in the script, and called it Anna Lucasta. With Hilda Simms in the lead role, it opened in June and within two weeks won financial support from the Rockefeller Foundation and praise from the critics. Burton Rascoe wrote in the New York World-Telegram, "the importance of Anna Lucasta is that . . . it is not the usual white theatrical exploitation of the Negro as a . . . •colorful,' 'quaint' or 'charming' character, but is a serious story of average human beings (all highly individualized) who happen to have pigmented skins." Anna Lucasta moved to the Mansfield Theatre in August of 1944 with five members of the original cast. Under John Wildberg, the new director (who removed the prologue and the epilogue), it became an instant hit. Joined by such actors as Canada Lee, Rosetta LeNoire, Earle Hyman, Sidney Poitier, Ruby Dee, and Frank Silvera, Hill followed this success with the sixth ANT production, his Walk Hard (1944). Nine black actors worked harmoniously with nine white actors during its six-week engagement. Other ANT productions (not directed by Hill) included Theodore Brown's Natural Man (the first ANT production to be reviewed by the daily press), Katherine Garrison's Sojourner Truth, Owen Dodson's Garden of Time, and Dan Hammerman's Henri Christophe. Hill wrote several other plays while working as the drama editor of the Amsterdam News. Of his work as a director and a playwright, he has said, "I have tried to bring about a balance in the Negro theater. Most big-time commercial productions on race themes have dealt with only about ten percent of the Negro people— as a rule the exotic lower depths. All I'm trying to do is introduce a few of the other types who run the gamut

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from professionals, middle class, and the everyday Dicks, Toms, and Harrys." After leaving the ANT, Hill taught at Lincoln University and then returned to the New York public school system, where he taught at Laurelton High School. During his last years, he was in great demand as a lecturer and consultant. When Abram Hill died in 1986, Alice Childress delivered the obituary address at the Riverside Church before a large gathering that included his wife, Ruth Caston Mueller Hill, his sister and brother, a number of nieces and nephews, and many black luminaries. In 1974, Hill was delighted to see the revival of On Strivers Row at Roger Fur man's New Heritage Repertory Company in New York and in a number of other other cities across the country. It has been done as a musical comedy. On Strivers Row satirizes people who aspire to live at any price in Harlem's famous community of tan brick houses located on West 139th Street—in the words of Carl Van Vechten, the "lawyers, physicians, real estate operators, or opulent proprietors of beauty parlors" who live largely in an enclosed world of make-believe, haunted by feelings of inferiority and insecurity. In the center of the the action are the Van Strivens, a middleclass family of pretentious ambition. Throughout the first act, the audience is amused by a relentless caricature of black bourgeois strivings, prejudices, and social cant. Though the Van Strivens value education (their daughter Cobina is attending Radcliffe), both Cobina and Professor Hennypest are presented as comic parodies of Blacks on whom education is wasted. In the second act, one of the Van Strivens' swanky affairs, the debut of their daughter, turns into a shambles when Joe Smothers, a jive-talking, swinging Harlem hipster hired by Mrs. Van Striven's adversary, appears on the scene. Though some critics damned this play with faint praise ("superficially convincing"), one reviewer found its tone so light and witty that Negro audiences were invited to laugh easily at the foolish behavior of these people who seem to have convinced themselves that

ABRAM HILL

they belong to vfery special "society." In pursuit of its prey, it necessarily presents few positive images of its principals and suggests that their moral and emotional development is inversely proportional to their material success. Some critics have suggested that the decline of the ANT began when the few playwrights who contributed significantly to its development, with an eye on downtown theater, began to make fun of its own middleclass audiences, thereby diluting the mainstream of black theater by reflecting white attitudes. In what amounts to a rejoinder to this criticism in the Winter 1987 issue of Overture, Hill argued persuasively that ANT's eleven original productions, three of which were taken to Broadway, gave black theater a visibility and a future that culminated in the work of such indispensable groups as the Negro Ensemble Company headed by Douglas Turner Ward. On Strivers Row showed that intelligently crafted black theater, even when it criticized Blacks, could attract a wide and appreciative audience. Hill also tried his hand as an adapter. His stage version of Tolstoy's novel The Power of Darkness was produced at the Master Institute Theatre in 1948, but Miss Mabel, a three-act adaptation of Robert Sheriff's work, and So Shall You Reap, a three-act fantasy written in 1938, remain unproduced in manuscript. In addition, Hill wrote Split Down the Middle, a two-act drama (1969); Beyond the Bush, a one-act (1970); and Latin, Greek or Grits, a full-length play about the life of Booker T. Washington (1970). His dazzling versatility made him one of the moving spirits in the story of black theater. References "Abram Hill." Current Biography, 6 (August 1945): 283-85. "Black Theatre in Harlem," Overture 14, no. 1 (Winter 1987). Several pieces in the issue are devoted to Hill.

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Hamilton, Jack. "The American Negro Theatre." Dramatics (March 1946): 3. Mitchell, Loften. Voices of the Black Theatre. Clifton, N.J.: James T. White, 1975. "Obituary." Services for Abram Hill, October 6, 1986, Riverside Church. Walker, Ethel Pitts. "The American Negro Theatre." The Theater of Black Americans, ed. Errol Hill. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall (Spectrum Books), 1980. Wallace, Michelle. "Interview." Hatch-Blllops Archive, January 19, 1974.

On Strivers Row

A SATIRE

Abram Hill CHARACTERS SOPHIE DOLLY VAN STRIVEN PROFESSOR HENNTPEST TILLIB PETUNIA CHUCK COBINA MRS. PACE OSCAR VAN STRIVEN LILT LIVINGSTON ROWENA ED TUCKER LOUISE DAVIS DR. LEON DAVIS RUBY JACKSON BEULAH JOE SMOTHERS

SCENES The action takes place in the reception room and foyer of the Van Striven Home in Harlem. Act I Scene 1 A morning in the fall of the 1940s Scene 2 Nine P.M., the same day Act II Scene 1 A few minutes later Scene 2 Later, the same evening

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BACKGROUND The Van Strivens' residence stands high and mighty in the heart of Harlem on West 139th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. In bygone days when this and similar homes in the block were built, (circa 1913), they became the town homes for upper-class whites. As the complexion of Harlem later changed, the boire bourgeoise, especially the socially inclined ones, purchased these properties. By the 1920s, the block had become known as Strivers Row, a trim, tree-dotted, exclusive community of "society" Blacks. Fearing slum encroachment, affluent lawyers, doctors, teachers, reai estate brokers, business people, and renowned celebrities established a rigid pattern of disciplined living, guarded orderliness, and more than a hint of luxury. Striving to set an exclusive and fashionable way of living became the order of the day. Neighbor competed with neighbor to outdo one another. Meanwhile less fortunate Blacks developed varying degrees of mockery and hostility. It is no mere coincidence

that our story deals with a family by the name of Van Striven.

Musicales, teas, and soirees set the social vogue in these homes; whereas yacht parties, theater-concertopera attending, weekend retreats at resorts and summer homes, motor trips in high-powered cars, and trips abroad added additional luster to the doings of this tribe. The Van Strivens consider themselves socially miles above their neighbors. Though their home is a fourstory dwelling—the same as the others in the block— Van Strivens have engineered themselves into a position of "second to none." The first floor of the home includes an entrance, sitting room, den, dining room, kitchen, pantry, maid's room, and bath. The second floor includes a foyer, reception room, back parlor and family room. The third and fourth floors have baths and bedrooms.

ON STRIVERS ROW

SCENE The scene of the play is the large reception room (front parlor) and the foyer, an elevated entrance area further upstage. Here, the Van Strivens entertain small and informal gatherings. The back parlor off left is reserved for larger and more formal affairs. An arch in the center of the upstage wall of the reception room, three steps, flanking wrougth-iron rails and an accompanying balustrade separate the room from the foyer. The foyer floor is about two feet above the level of the parlor floor. The walls of the room, heightened by the sunken floor and a spectacular chandelier, enhance a quiet elegance and a hint of pretentiousness. Upstage off right leads to the front door. It cannot be seen, but it frequently can be heard to slam. Upstage off left leads to the stairwell, the hall, back parlor, and a den. Along the right wall is a pair of French doors, leading to a veranda overlooking the street. Partially drawn drapes and Venetian blinds encase the French doors. This wall is indented, allowing a threequartered viewing of the doors by the audience. Downstage of the left wall is a doorway leading to a passageway to the back parlor. Double swivel doors are suggested for the area, thus allowing easy-flowing exits and entrances. Clusters of furniture are arranged for easy conversation. Right of center is a stylish loveseat with a small table above holding a lamp. An upholstered armchair down left, a cocktail table in front of the loveseat, and a stool extremely down right complete this grouping. A console table with a vase and a French phone plus a radio and record-playing combination along the left wall add luster. Right and left of the arch are single antique chairs. A classy painting and a delicately carved bench dominate the foyer. Other paintings, furnishings, and minutiae are strategically placed, including rugs and candlelight wall fixtures.

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The setting is very prim, proper, and affluent. One has to wonder why there is a sign tucked in the French door that makes one wonder about the Van Strivens. The sign reads: ROOM TO RENT.

ACT I Scene 1 Before the curtain rises, appropriate music—classical, please—sets the high and mighty tone qfStrivers Row. The music is emanating from a radio. Since the blinds are drawn, very little light illuminates the room. Entering from the left foyer is SOPHIE, a rather chic, casual, and extremely informal maid. She is wearing the customary maid's uniform and is carrying a dust mop and a basket of cleaning paraphernalia. She adjusts the Venetian blinds; light filters the room. She is humming "When the Saints Go Marching In" and is deliberately drowning out the radio music. Her cleaning begins with her feathered duster and cleaning cloth taking a stroke at the furniture. Shutting off the radio, she sings, synchronizing her strokes with the song. SOPHIE:

Lord, I want to be in that number; when the saints go marching in. Oh, when the saints go marching in; Oh, when the saints go marching in, (almost prayerfully) Lord, I sure wish I'd hit a NUMBER— DOLLY: (offstage) Good morning, Sophie. SOPHIE: (now, very busy) Morning, Ma'am. DOLLY: YOU sound as if you attended a revival meeting last night instead of a dance, (entering from left foyer) SOPHIE: Ain't no difference. At one you dance with your man. At the other, you dance with the Holy Ghost.

ON STRIVERS ROW

(Now within full view, DOLLY is dressed in a Dior housecoat and is strikingly handsome, well-bred, youthfully Jortyish matron of the Afro-American elite that descended from pre-Civil War black and white Romeos and Juliets in downstate New York. Though totally confident of the supremacy of her social status, there is a slight edge of uncertainty—"a hidden dissuader"—that creeps into her manner. She masks this dissuader with wit, but at times frustration makes her a bit daffy. She is carrying a pair of slippers) DOLLY: YOU must have had fun. You didn't get in until the wee hours this morning. Break these in again for me, please. SOPHIE: (taking the slippers) What again! I crucified my feet last night at the Bellhops Ball. I don't feel— DOLLY: (embracing her) You also wore my mink cape. Am I annoyed? No! SOPHIE: (Changing to slippers) When I first took the job, having access to your wardrobe was part of the deal. DOLLY: (very lightly) My jewelry and cape were the exceptions. Let's remember not to forget that, (SOPHIE winces, her feet hurt) It's that left one that pinches, isn't it. SOPHIE: It's the left side of my face that's screwed up, ain't it? In the Flip Flop Boogie we danced, the action was on the right foot. DOLLY: Where was the left foot? SOPHIE: In the air, like this—(rises, does the Flip Flop Boogie on the rightfoot, the left stabbing the air) DOLLY: Get the mail. That's no dance. That's some new version of a fit. (SOPHIE shuffles toward the foyer) Stop, Sophie! I'll get it. You shuffle like Uncle Tom after he has swallowed ten beers, (she goes off foyer right) SOPHIE: (sitting on chair arm) It's beyond me why some colored people—even "the well-bred ones"—have such unbred feet.

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newspaper) DOLLY: (entering with mail and a Lovely! Lovely! Scores of people have R-S-V-Peed! (examining the mail) SOPHIE: Any mail for me? DOLLY: NO, dear. Nobody wrote to you. (opening mail) SOPHIE: Who cares. The only male I'm interested in wears pants. DOLLY: A reply from Dr. Leon Davis and his wife, Louise. SOPHIE: His hands stray too much on foreign territory, (smacks her buttocks) DOLLY: HOW nice! Judge and Mrs. Tucker, true born aristocrats. SOPHIE: They may be aristocrats, but that son is a acrobat. He— DOLLY: And George P. Muzzumer, the undertaker tycoon. Why, the money he has! SOPHIE: YOU know, when my fourth husband died, he wouldn't let him down in his grave until I paid a deposit on his funeral. DOLLY: (puzzled at the letter) Rita Richpot—Rita Richpot—? SOPHIE: That's the former Rita Kale. You see, Dr. Kale ain't filling her perscription no more. DOLLY: What's that? SOPHIE: He pulled that mink coat off her and put her tail out on the turf. DOLLY: Heavens! (throws reply into waste basket) Then I must retrack my invitation. I'll telephone her— make some excuse for her not to come. When people drop their morals, I drop them from my guest book. (picks up book and scratches name from book) Couples are so dizzy now a days. They change one another faster than you can change the bed linen. SOPHIE: (impertinently) That do'd it! My salary, please. DOLLY: (sitting SOPHIE down) Oh—come now, Sophie—there's something between us bigger than salaries.

ON STRIVERS ROW

It sure is. And that's my bill. DOLLT: (rising) Come, Sophie, we have plenty to do. SOPHIE: (rallying) We! That bunch of snobs coming here can't appreciate the fact that I've lost ten pounds in ten days getting this house in shape for them tonight. DOLLT: Tis not in vain, Sophie. Cobina Van Striven's debut will be the debut of the season. SOPHIE: That child don't want no debut. DOLLT: But, my dear, debutantes at eighteen always make their bows before society. SOPHIE: (resuming dusting) I nearly busted my corset when I debuted. DOLLT: Hahahahaha—you bowing before society—at eighteen, I suppose! SOPHIE: What old society at eighteen! I was bowing before the Captain at precinct 32, explaining! DOLLT: Sophie, you're impossible. But, what would I ever do without you? SOPHIE: That's what he wants to know. SOPHIE:

DOLLT: He? SOPHIE: Joe. DOLLT: Joe

who? Has he no last name? (gloatingly) Ain't nothin' in a name. DOLLT: YOU would love a man without knowing whether he was good or not? SOPHIE: And will you tell me what a good man can do? DOLLT: Well, what do you expect in a man? SOPHIE: Excitement! DOLLT: (disdainfully) Oh! Such talk! I hope mother nor Cobina has ever heard you talking like this. SOPHIE: Cobina would surprise you. DOLLT: (puzzled) What do you mean? SOPHIE: Nothing. DOLLT: (she strolls to the window) You will see some fine young men here tonight. Unfortunately, one or two have kinky hair. SOPHIE:

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Ma Pace ain't gonna have them. DOLLY: Mother, well—yes—she can be made to— That sign. That awful sign! (going to window) Why Oscar insists upon putting it there—he is so uncommonly common. SOPHIE: YOU know Mr. Van Striven ain't gonna have you taking that thing down. DOLLY: (coming down center with sign "Room For Rent") I cannot have it up now. What will people say? (lays it on table near sofa) The Van Strivens' palatial residence is not a rooming house. SOPHIE: Mr. Van Striven's more interested in getting it paid for than he is in getting it palatial. Besides four people don't need no fourteen rooms. SOPHIE:

(Door slams offstage) DOLLY: Get my foot into your shoe—I mean get your foot into my shoe. Hurry! SOPHIE: (rising slowly) They seen feet b'fore. DOLLY: (threatening SOPHIEJ One of these days— (HENNYPEST enters through hall door. He is a humble little fat man with a bald head. Somewhere between forty and fifty, he has traded his youth for wisdom— he has gained more than he has lost in the bargain. The apex of his stomach puffs out between a wrinkled vest and his baggy pants) DOLLY:

smiles.

Good morning, Professor—always full of

VNYPEST: Smiles—Madame—at home they say, I grin like a "Chessy" cat. SOPHIE: (slyly) Well, Professor, down home we still grin, but up North we smile. DOLLY: That will do, Sophie. HENNYPEST: (folding his hands) You have one beautiful home, and a beautiful maid. SOPHIE: (coquettishly) Aw, gone. DOLLY: I say—you catch New York's flattering habit

ON STRIVERS ROW

in your first three days. You're quite apt, Professor. How was your morning stroll? HENNYPEST: I didn't stroll this morning—I was basking in the sunshine out in the backyard . . .

(correcting) You mean courtl Oh, yes, court. Someone across the way hung out a blanket and blocked out the sunshine. DOLLY: (abruptly) You mean in the next block? HENNYPEST: Yes, madame. DOLLY: (with a feeling of difference) Those common nookies are such an envious bunch of hoodlums. SOPHIE: (defensively) Hey, my brother lives in that block. DOLLY: (gently) Oh, but your brother is different. DOLLY:

HENNYPEST:

SOPHIE: He's an

Elk.

DOLLY: I mean that crowd that curses from Monday to Friday, throws those noisy Saturday night gin parties, and cooks pig's feet all day Sunday. HENNYPEST: YOU wouldn't happen to have any now, would you? DOLLY: Heavens, no! Why Professor Hennypest, pig's feet come from the lowest part of the pig. People of class simply do not partake. HENNYPEST: But, Madame, what I cast into my stomach has nothing to do with class distinction. DOLLY: Appetites and attitudes will at times get confused. However, Oscar telephoned that you had breakfast at the Hotel Clarissa. HENNYPEST: (sadly) Exactly three orders, Madame, and I regret to say that what you New Yorkers call a meal is a gross overstatement. DOLLY: I am so sorry. Sophie, prepare a big breakfast for Professor Hennypest. A glass of orange juice—an egg and some toast. SOPHIE: (to HENNYPESTJ Two eggs wouldn't kill you, would they? HENNYPEST: Physically, Sophie, no. Socially, I hope not.

367

368

ABRAM HILL DOLLY: Good gracious, no! This isn't Sugar Hill. Why, fix him as many as—three eggs if you like.

(The doorbell rings) HENNTPEST: Thank

you, madame. DOLLY: Answer the door! SOPHIE: (at second ring, SOPHIE rises slowly) Take it easy, I'm coming! DOLLY: Hurry! HENNYPBST: I will answer it. DOLLY: Of course not, Professor. Let her do something, (pauses—sees herfeet) Look at her feet! (rises) Never mind, I will— SOPHIE: (bangs into both from her tilted position) Will you make up your— DOLLY: (screams) Ouch! Get off my foot! (crossing down right) SOPHIE: (exiting right) This ain't no time for no visitors! DOLLY: Such a maid. SOPHIE: (off right as doorbell rings again) Keep down your dandruff! TILLDX: (offstage) Please stay in your place! Such horrible manners! (Entering from right in a huff, stopping downcenter. enters, stops and leans nonchalantly against archway, TILLIE, dressed fashionably in mink stole and mink hat, is a high-poweredfortyish, uppity "do wager" with an SS figure—somewhat like a drunken dollar sign. She radiates a disarming superiority that is more calculated than real)

SOPHIE

TILLIB: Dolly—that maid! Such impertinence. Such undiluted insolence. DOLLY: What did you say to Mrs. Petunia? SOPHIE: That her big, white Cadillac looks like a pregnant Frigidaire. DOLLY: (bangs into HENNNYPEST, both dashing to win-

ON STRIVERS ROW

dow right) New Cadillac. Tillie, it's magnificent. It must be twenty feet long. TILLIE: Twenty-two. SOPHIE: Honey, you could paste a vacancy sign on your bumper and rent that thing out as a floating motel. TILLIE: And the sign on your bumper should read MAD, n o t MAID.

DOLLY: Take

her stole, Sophie.

(TILLIE sits upper end of sofa) SOPHIE: (takes stole) I wonder how many animals would be wearing their own furs this season if it wasn't for the installment. . . plan? DOLLY: Suppose you let the skunks do their own worrying and bring tea for us. flings stole on foyer table, exits left after a mean look at TILLIE,}

(SOPHIE

TILLIE:

Ark?

Did you say she was from Newark or Noah's

DOLLY: (sitting opposite TILLIEJ Mrs. Petunia, I want you to meet Professor Hennypest. HENNTPEST: HOW are you, Mrs. Petunia? TILLIE: (sizes him up) You're not one of these root doctors or numerologists? DOLLY: Don't mind her, Professor, (to TILLIE) He occupies the Chair of Zoology at Buskeegee University. TILLIE: (aside) No doubt, uncomfortably, (direct) How nice. I wonder if you get as tired of meeting trash as I do. I cannot risk introductions anywhere in Harlem. You never know whether you're meeting a deacon or a devil. Dolly's house is different, thank God. HENNTPEST: And she is a most congenial hostess. TILLIE: Have you been here long? HENNTPEST: NO Madame—just for the annual meeting of the American Zoological Society, at the Bronx Zoo.

369

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ABRAMHILL

My house guest for three days. TILLIE: House guests are like fish. HENNTPEST: Fish? TILLIE: They smell after three days. But, of course, Professor Hennypest, you are a celebrity. HENNTPEST: NO, Madame, Baptist. TILLIE: What—oh yes, related to the Kings County Hennypests? HENNTPEST: NO, Madame. TILLIE: The North Jersey Hennypests? HENNTPEST: NO, Madame. TILLIE: Certainly the Philadelphia, everybody is related to them. HENNTPEST: Sorry, Madame. I am not. TILLIE: Surely you have some relations. They are a bore, but they do give you a sort of family tree, if you get what I mean. HENNTPEST: I guess mine was chopped down. That makes me something of a stump. TILLIE: HOW very true. Those things do happen. DOLLY: YOU are matched against a man with two Ph.D.'s, Tillie. TILLIE: Where'd he steal them? DOLLY: Northwestern and University of Pennsylvania. He's a little short on front— TILLIE: I'd say he has a lot of front DOLLY: Don't let her frighten you, Professor. HENNTPEST: Saepe satins fuit dissimulare quam ulicisci. (TILLIE gawks, he translates) It is better not to see an insult than avenge it. (exiting) TILLIE: Leaving? FPEST: Immediately after breakfast. I'm going up to the Bronx Zoo. TILLIE: Visiting relatives? HENNTPEST: NO, Madame, animals. TILLIE: Homo sapiens and animals are both living beings, (smiling triumphantly) DOLLY:

ON STRIVERS ROW HENNYPEST: Then I am visiting relatives—our relatives, (pauses, then exiting) I suppose 111 see you at the party. TILLIE: Me?? I never visit zoos. DOLLY: He means Cobina's party tonight. TILLIE: (to HENNYPEST with disbelief) You'll be at the party? HENNYPEST: Yes, Madame, do save a dance for me. TILLIE: I'm not good at dancing. HENNYPEST: You'll be good with me. Just hold tight and let me lead. TILLIE: Hold tight? I'm allergic to bay windows. HENNYPEST: Then well just hold hands. TILLIE: Holding hands with strange men makes me nervous. HENNYPEST: I'll have my tranquilizer. TILLIE: I have an aversion to tranquilizers. HENNYPEST: HOW do you relax, Madame? TILLIE: (conclusively) Through meditation; very private and personal! Any companionship there would provoke a saint! HENNYPEST: (crossing to Joyer, pauses) Amen, Madame. Perhaps at benediction you'll join me in prayer. (stumbles, smiles apologetically, turns up his nose and exits left) DOLLY: I find him so amusing TILLIE: (somewhat miffed) More of a peasant than a professor. Unbutton his vest and the whole man will tumble out. DOLLY: Well, he is a heavy eater— TILLIE: And a heavyweight nuisance! SOPHIE: (entering with tea on tray, tarries on stairs) Come and get it. DOLLY: Right here, dear. SOPHIE: Lord, today!

(She reluctantly places the tray on the coffee table, then pours a cup. As TILLIE reaches for the cup, think-

371

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ABRAM HILL

ing it is for her, SOPHIE gobbles down a drink and exits nonchalantly as the two ladies sit dumbfounded) Well—I never! (readying tea) That girl! That girl! She's like driving a car. When I see the red in her eyes, I jam on the brakes. TILLIE: AS long as there's one ounce of vitamin "I" in your face, they will insult us. DOLLY: Vitamin "I"? TILLIE: Ink, Dolly, ink. (touching her face—colorwise) DOLLY: Tillie, you are a scream, (serving tea, airishly) TILLIE: By the way, Dolly. Why don't you move out to Brooklyn? Harlem has gotten to be such a cesspool of nobodies, (sipping, equally airishly) DOLLY: Oh, I'm holding my ground on Strivers Row. TILLIE: Why the hoi polloi has invaded and ruined Harlem. DOLLY: (defensively) True, we all live in the same area, but we don't travel in the same circle. TILLIE: YOU may, but what about Cobina? DOLLY: My daughter never associates with anyone without my approval, (both sipping a la grande dames) TILLIE: Then what was she doing at the benefit party at the Savoy Ballroom last week—slumming? DOLLY: I tell you, we did not participate. I purchased tickets, but when I found out the affair was unrestricted, I gave my tickets to the grocery boy. TILLIE: I could have sworn I saw that child with some moonfaced boy—looking as brown and broke as Haile Selassie. DOLLY: And what were you doing there? TILLIE: Only to cover the event for my newspaper. My social reporter was ill because she didn't want to become a mother. But her ordeal was nothing compared to those nobodies. That awful Dr. Davis swung me around doing the Atomic Flop, (dramatizes Atomic Flop) TILLIE:

DOLLY:

ON STRIVERS ROW DOLLY: Oh—you're

too rigid. TILLIE: Will he be here tonight? DOLLY: Of course, he and his wife. TILLIE: 111 join you for a headache when they arrive. DOLLY: Listen, I'm having a debutante party—not a jamboree. TILLIE: If it's all you say it will be, then I'll carry it in the front page of the Black Dispatch next week. DOLLY: (annoyed) Which will be far better than this week's headline—"Three in Bed Causes Divorce." TILLIE: People like dirt—and I believe in digging deep into it for them. DOLLY: YOU should elevate their readership. TILLIE: What else is there to print besides news about these charitable affairs! If someone is born, marries, or dies, he's given a benefit. Only other event is news about the antics of these dizzy debs. DOLLY: Charity is for the devil's poor. Society is for God's chosen few. Debs do silly things, mixing society and charity. But they aren't half as bad as these roue widows clinging to these chippy boys. TILLIE: (strangling) Er—er—well a modern woman must have an escort. DOLLY: Be thankful that you still have your reputation. TILLIE: Reputation is only what your worst enemy thinks! (The doorbell rings). (DOLLY rises) DOLLY:

true—true— (calling) Sophie—Sophie—the

door—Sophie . . . (she hides towards the hall door)

her limp as she

walks

Down there drunk, I bet. (passing down the hall). I ain't gonna have that, (going towards arch door) I'm comin! Keep your boots laced, (the bell rings again) DOLLY: Hurry—hurry. SOPHIE: (exits) Plague take it! TILLIE:

SOPHIE:

373

374

ABRAM HILL DOLLY: Hurry-hurry. TILLIE: (having peeped

at the pad) I see you've invited old Tyler Beecher, the old robust beer barrel. He squeezes so hard, it causes my stockings to run. DOLLY: But he's gentle and nice. TILLIE: The man isn't wood! DOLLY: All men like to go on a little spree. But they always come back. TILLIE: Yes, slightly soiled. SOPHIE: (in the door) A boy is heah—wanna know if you got any work he kin do. TILLIE: (increduously) A boy looking for work!! DOLLY: NO snow outside. The windows are cleaned. No, I guess not dear, (trying to think of something) SOPHIE: He's a nice boy. DOLLY: Tell him Father Divine has a Sunday School in the next block. SOPHIE: The back parlor needs waxing. DOLLY: Haven't you done that yet? SOPHIE: I ain't getting down on these knees. He tole me not to git no cones on 'em. DOLLY: All right, show him down to the kitchen— SOPHIE: NOW you talking—come on, Sonny. TILLIE: (informatively) Dolly—is he trustworthy? DOLLY: (excitedly) Sophie— SOPHIE: I know—come, Sonny. (CHUCK enters through arch door. A bashful boy about twenty, he walks in timidly. He fingers a crushed hat in his hands. His clothes are aged but clean, TIL LIE'S haughty manner frightens him. He steps behind the sofa) SOPHIE: Meet the dark Daughters of the American Revolution. DOLLY: Sophie! CHUCK: (anxiously) I'll do anything, Miss. Fire the furnace—

ON STRIVERS ROW DOLLY: Have

you any reference? CHUCK: Yessum! U.S. Government Conservation Agency, stocking ponds with baby fish. TILLIE: A fish planter! CHUCK: Then I went into the army— DOLLY: (to CHUCK,/ Oh a war veteran—a real hero, (to TILLIEJ

CHUCK: Not exactly. I was stationed on Marshall Island where the biggest battle I had was with the gallinippers. TILLIE: I suppose you slew them. CHUCK: Yessum—by the hundreds. DOLLY: (seriously) Oh you are a real hero, killing hundreds of gallinippers. TILLIE: Ts-sk! Yes, with a spray. DOLLY: I guess hell do, Tillie. SOPHIE: (to DOLLYJ After all who's paying him—if he gets paid. CHUCK: I'll work for whatever you're willing to pay. TILLIE: Unbelievably generous! Was Bellevue one pond where you planted fish? CHUCK: Ma'am? SOPHIE: Somebody got to wax the floors. DOLLY: Yes—yes— (to CHUCKJ DO a good job now. CHUCK: Yessum. I sure will. Thank you, ma'am. SOPHIE: Pick up your cross and follow me. (SOPHIE

and CHUCK exit through hall door)

DOLLY: He

is safe, I hope. TILLIE: Looked pretty anxious to get in. DOLLY: But his face, did you notice that round and handsome face? TILLIE: Humph! Plain as the Ethiopian moon! Where is Rowena? She said she would be here in ten minutes, (rising—observing her wrist watch) I must go. DOLLY: (moving tray to table near steps) Now you have plenty of time—no need to whiz off.

375

376

ABRAM HILL TILLIE: I have a meeting at the YWCA. The Ad Hoc Committee for Retarded Prostitutes is meeting. First, I must pick up Rowena. DOLLY: Where did Rowena stop? TILLIE: At Brenda's. Just had to chat with her. Brenda married, Ben, you know. DOLLY: (surprised) No—clever girl indeed. TILLIE: In spite of those knock-knees, too. She snatched him right out from under Cobina, eh? DOLLY: (indifferently) Who cares? He's too old for her anyway. TILLIE: (in finally, close to DOLLYJ Will you tell me just whom are you landing for Cobina? DOLLY: (laughing) I knew time you popped in here, that's what you were after, (TILLIE sitting next to her) Well, there's Charlie— TILLIE: (scoffing) Some deb is always on his lap. DOLLY: Yes, but not on his mind. Then there's Roy Tomkinson. TILLIE: (derisively) The C.P.A! He's a constant pain in the tootsie. DOLLY: Mother doesn't like him anyway. There's Ed— TILLIE: Judge Tucker's son? DOLLY: (brightening) Yes—now, he— TILLIE: But I thought—that is—oh, he is real quality. DOLLY: Then there is— TILLIE: Judge Tucker said— DOLLY: What? TILLIE: Well—I heard that Ed is out for someone else. DOLLY: That's ridiculous. He's been here every night during Cobina's vacation from school. TILLIE: Every night? DOLLY: At least every other night. Harlem sees him plenty. TILLIE: NO doubt slumming! Brooklyn girls are his favorites!

ON STRIVERS ROW DOLLY: (mounting indignation) I bet you right now, he is down there in Central Park, horseback riding with Cobina. TILLIE: He takes Rowena to the formal dances. DOLLY: IS that so? He never mentions her. He avoids her— TILLIE: Only occasionally because of her bright mind. DOLLY: (rising) Bright? That's an inflated statement! (walking toward the window) TILLIE: Cobina is cute as a button, but Ed doesn't like buttons. DOLLY: (turning) You'll need more than that Black Dispatch to make him your nephew! TILLIE: I didn't say that. My niece will choose whom she pleases— DOLLY: YOU said enough! (coming D.C. thundering as TILLIE backs away) You've been running all up and down Strivers Row trying to find out who— (COBINA comes stamping into the room through the arch door. She is followed by MRS. PACE and OSCAR VAN STRIVEN, OSCAR stops confused at the door. MRS. PACE follows COBINA to the upper end of the sofa, COBINA is eighteen, wears riding habit She is bubbling over with rage. Crossing DOLLY without saying a word, she stops next to the chair extreme left and flings her coat in it) COBINA: Oh,

let me alone! DOLLY: (going to COBINAJ Have you no manners? COBINA: (boisterously) I checked them in the hall! (MRS. PACE, a very cold and stately woman of sixty, stares at COBINA. She is extremely correct in her costume. Her mixed gray hair gives her an air of distinction. She wears a tailored winter suit with a cape. Her mouth is a thin line of depression. The little furrow in herforehead, her black eyes piercing from underneath her brows, one usually cocked, have a disarming effect. People say her eyebrows are optical wings of social deportment)

377

378

ABRAM HILL PACE: Stop wobbling! Stop swagging like a bag of wet dough. The idea! (to TILLIEJ Hello, Petunia! (OSCAR is a businesslike man about forty-Jive years of age. Though he speaks with absolute sincerity, his mind seems to be somewhere else. Acknowledges TILLIE's presence by nodding) OSCAR: She was slouching against a lamp post on the corner of 133rd Street and Lenox Avenue! TILLIE: What kind of horse riding is that? (slyly) Do—tell—I never! DOLLY: Cobina, what about the horse you phoned for? MRS. PACE: (walks down left) The horse didn't answer the phone! OSCAR: (to COBINAJ I have asked you to explain. COBINA: (turning in wrath) Let me alone! MRS. PACE: (fiercely) Waiting for someone on that corner. OSCAR: A pack of noisy brats, winking at you. COBINA: They were playground kids. MRS. PACE: What time was the strip tease to begin? OSCAR: (moves left to COBINA,) I won't have it. You know I won't. I will pack you up and drive you back to Radcliffe, before you can bat your eye. Whom were you waiting for, I ask you? MRS. PACE: In Washington, you would be positively disgraced. TILLIE: (chirping) And in Brook— MRS. PACE: Yes, Brooklyn. I know, Tillie. What are you doing here, digging up dirt before the party begins? TILLIE: Why, Mrs. Pace. DOLLY: (to COBINAJ If it weren't for your party tonight, I would— COBINA: I told you I didn't want any party. MRS. PACE: Stop twisting! All my efforts wasted. When will you learn poise?

ON STRIVERS ROW COBINA: I don't

shirts—

give a hoot about phonies and stuffed

DOLLY: (shakes pad in COBINA'sjace) Don't speak like that about my guests, child. COBINA: I'm not a child. I'm now eighteen. DOLLY: Well, ex-child, Only my funeral could stop this party. COBINA: IS it my party or your coronation? (waving) MRS. PACE: Keep your hands still. I ought to have you in Washington. OSCAR: We're going to settle this thing . . . COBINA: (verging on tears) Daddy— MRS. PACE: Stop taxing your face! You'll look like a hag tonight. COBINA: (plaintively) I am unhappy. I rather spend my birthday in bed. Who needs to be stuck in a receiving line to meet a bunch of phony bolonies. Society, my foot! They've all just escaped from poverty and spend their time gossiping against being overtaken. I didn't ask to be born into society. I didn't even ask to be born! OSCAR: (disgustedly) Radcliffe! MRS. PACE: I told you to send her to me in Washington. Why, there— TILLIE: (beaming) This is Harlem, Mrs. Pace. MRS. PACE: I can smell it. TILLIE: YOU can't raise a rose in a junkyard. MRS. PACE: IS the fertilizer of Brooklyn any different? COBINA: (crossing to OSCARJ Dad, please cancel it. You know you don't care for all this social nonsense. OSCAR: GO to your room at once! (COBINA

exits center a la waddling

duck)

PACE: Stop walking like a duck! I shall put a prop behind you tonight, (following the exiting COBINAJ Don't bend your knees, (offstage) Curve them in line with your body. You ought to stay off horses. Let go that balustrade! (offstage, a tumbling noise) Look out!

379

380

ABRAM HILL DOLLY:

(exiting, followed by OSCARJ Oh!

COBINA: (offstage) (TILLIE grabs

Make her stop shouting at me!

pad from table, studies it religiously)

Please! Please! hurt! she isn't hurt. MRS. PACE: (offstage) She fell with the grace of a feeble cow. TILLIE: (has returned pad to table as DOLLY returns) Dear Mrs. Pace, so completely put out. (TILLIE is leaving, but hesitates) DOLLY: (reassuringly) Mother will make a lady out of her yet. TILLIE: Perhaps through hypnosis. DOLLY: (arms, TILLIE, nudging her exit) You aren't going? TILLIE: Yes, dear, I must. And have I got a story! Tell Rowena to meet me at the YWCA. The meeting has certainly started— OSCAR: (entering) Mrs. Petunia, wait a minute, please. TILLIE: (led forward by OSCARJ Of course, Oscar. DOLLY: (skeptically, moving up) What is it, Oscar? OSCAR: (heavily) Something I must tell you. I know you will need Mrs. Petunia's advice. DOLLY: (crossing, turning TILLIE to leave) Tillie has an engagement, Oscar. TILLIE: (unyieldingly) Oh, but Dolly—Oscar looks so grave. DOLLY: (softly) That's what I'm afraid of. What is it, Oscar? OSCAR: YOU know those lots, the Jamaica lots? DOLLY: DO I—with them on our hands for five years? TILLIE: Your property near the city dump? OSCAR: (smiling) Yes—that is—yes. DOLLY: What about it? MRS. PACE: (offstage)

COBINA: (offstage) No, I'm not DOLLY: (offstage) Thank God,

1

ON STRIVERS ROW

I have a buyer for them. DOLLY: (a smile brightens her face) you don't say. Oscar, I— TILLIE: (carelessly, disappointed) Do tell! DOLLY: (happily) I told you all we had to do was wait. It is a miracle, (talking to TILLIEJ OSCAR: A lady is going to build a twelve-room house and develop a lawn, tennis courts and swimming pool— TILLIE: (eagerly) This is news, who? OSCAR: Miss Ruby Jackson. TILLIE: (searchingly) Jackson . . . Jackson? Not the insurance Jacksons? They went into bankruptcy after paying me my husband's premiums on his life insurance policy. OSCAR: This Jackson only came into money recently and— DOLLY: Recently, of course, then we wouldn't know her. TILLIE: Jackson—Jackson—wait, you mean the maid or cook who won a large sum of money from the sweepstakes? OSCAR: That's her. DOLLY: Why Oscar, that's nothing to be so tragic about. I think she is very wise. What a break for us! TILLIE: YOU hardly need my advice on that. OSCAR: Oh! I do—there is something else. DOLLY: (lightly) Now what could it be? OSCAR: Sure you won't get angry? DOLLY: Oscar, just like a child. No dear. OSCAR: (mildly) She wants to meet society. TILLIE: (sitting) That's nothing. Tell her to join the Elks. OSCAR: I mean the razzle dazzle set. DOLLY: (suspiciously) So? OSCAR: (in a humble manner) I invited her—to Cobina's debut. OSCAR:

381

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ABRAM HILL DOLLY: (swooning

against the sofa, she is caught by

OSCAR) W-w-w-what! TILLIE: (Jumps up and runs to her) Don't let her fall! Dolly, if you faint, Til join you. (they get her on the sofa) You what? DOLLY: Are you crazy? What do you mean to make me, the laughing stock of the season? My daughter's debut—a sideshow for some ambitious scrub woman. Her eyes flaming with social suds! OSCAR: But, Dolly, just this once—I must I tell you. The woman is a first-class cook for a Forest Hills family. Her pies have won prizes— DOLLY: A plain, common, shabby cook. How could you? That woman will not enter this house. I will not have her. Self-rising flour has inflated her brain. The woman is sick. Have her here! No! Most emphatically, NO! (pounds the sofa three beats) OSCAR: (pleadingly) It is business. She told me she only wants to get an introduction. She knows you can do it for her. She has read about you. That is all I need to clinch the deal. It won't hurt. You will introduce her, and then it will all be over. DOLLY: What am I, the promoter for some social striver? Tillie, tell him how silly it would be. Oh, for Pete's sake, I'm sick of this, (stretching out on sofa) TILLIE: (unimpressively) Now, Mr. Van Striven, there must be some other way. DOLLY: What will people say? The Smiths—the Davies—the Judge and— (rising quickly) TILLIE: (clicking) What will people say—er-er— (exiting) Dolly, I must be going. I must. DOLLY: I am afraid. I have planned—planned—and planned, (thinking) OSCAR: (coming down to sofa) Miss Jackson cannot do that much harm in one night. DOLLY: That's out. No sir! One moment of unwise benevolence can tear down a lifetime of prominence. You would dare mention this right to Tillie Petunia. That heckler, always trying to outshine me.

1

ON STRIVERS ROW OSCAR: I figured both of you would agree. Who could think of laughing with you and Tillie backing up Miss Jackson. DOLLY: (resentfully crossing) Tillie! Who do you think is the leading socialite in this neck of the woods? I need no one to help me say No! No! No! (punctuates "NO" by tapping his chest) OSCAR: I have invited her. She may bring a friend. I don't know what I can tell her now. DOLLY: Tell her it is off. Tell her anything. She cannot come here. That's that! OSCAR: (angered) I will not. DOLLY: (stunned) Oscar! OSCAR: I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this. But if that deal doesn't go through, if I don't sell Miss Jackson those lots, we will lose this house. DOLLY: (irritated) Now that wasn't very bright. OSCAR: Doubt it, huh? Well, notes on the mortgage have been mounting. They have not been paid for months. Slipping because I have not had the money. DOLLY: (casually) You have the money. You should have paid them. You keep reinvesting the profits. OSCAR: YOU guzzle the bulk of every dollar I make. DOLLY: Me? OSCAR: Yes you! Who must keep up with Tillie and the rest of those greenback burners. From one resort to another, Atlantic City, Saratoga, Martha's Vineyard, a roving band of gypsies cannot keep pace with you. Clothes, clothes, enough to supply the Ethiopian Army. Money, more money! Radcliffe itself, costing me a Scotch fortune! Where do you think it is coming from? I ain't Father Divine! DOLLY: (to OSCARJ You are exaggerating, (quickly) OSCAR: I most certainly am. This party, almost two thousand dollars. More gowns, band—liquor for a bunch of beer drinkers. I got to pay for it. All this for you. Yet you accuse me of throwing—(spots the vacancy sign—blasting) and that sign! (DOLLY jumps) I told you to keep that sign in the window. How can I

383

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ABRAM HILL

rent those rooms upstairs. I have to have some money. I told you. What do you reserve them for—guests? Guests who don't pay. (DOLLY moves toward the sofa) 111 show you, I will put a turnstile to the third floor, and your guests will have to drop a silver dollar in it before they go up there and pile on one of those idle beds. DOLLY: Oscar, my friends! OSCAR: (his voice rises, forcefully) Shut up! Your vanity has run me into a hold. Your vanity is going to pull me out or it'll crack like the walls of Jericho. (MRS. PACE enters from hall. She stares at OSCAR like he is a raging maniac) You shall pave the way for Miss Jackson or move into the Harlem River Flats—and like it—the F.H.A. is doing all the real estate business, anyway. mis. PACE: (huffing) What in the devil is this? (OSCAR stares at her disgustedly) DOLLY: (goes pleading to MRS. PACE, who is now in front of the sofa, OSCAR moves over to the vase of flowers) Mother—Oscar invited a cook to the party, (childlike) s. PACE: (adroitly) The caterer has already— c: (enters through arch door) I need some more money for— (freezes, then edges to the right as OSCAR gives her a mean look) DOLLY: (helplessly) Not to cook, but as a guest. He says it is business. (SOPHIE, feeling the tension, works her way around to the chair facing the sofa) PACE: (her lips tighten. Her brow cocks. The words flow fast and tingling) Business! The mantle with which a man can cover his vices as well as his virtues. Business, a concealing, conniving word! DOLLY: I will have to accept her. (tearfully) MRS. PACE: Some silly, stupid striver! DOLLY: What shall I do?

ON STRIVERS ROW MRS. PACE: (tilting her chin) Pray if you know how. (turning) Sophie, pack my bag! I am going to Washington! (DOLLY opens her mouth to MRS. PACE stands rigid

zled,

OSCAR: Sit down! MRS. PACE: (stepping

talking?

speak, SOPHIE looks puzand firm, OSCAR blasts)

up to

OSCAR; TO

whom are you

Sit down!! (As if he had jerked a string that held them up, MRS. PACE and DOLLY flop on the sofa, SOPHIE flops in the chair, OSCAR towers over them. They sit frightened, stiff as dummies) OSCAR:

(Curtain)

Scene 2 It is evening. The reception room is warm and cozy. The soft lights and vases of cutflowers in abundance add luster to the room. Soft music from an orchestra in the back parlor trails in. At the rise of the curtain, SOPHIE, in a more frilly cap and apron, moves about adding another flower from her arm to the several vases, counting each placement. SOPHIE: One hundred and seventeen, one hundred and eighteen, one— CHUCK: (appearing from left foyer, wearing a short white waiter's jacket armed with flowers and a covered bird cage) Sophie, who is Fred? SOPHIE: What's that? CHUCK: Over and over, this parrot's been saying, "Hey, Fred, drop dead." SOPHIE: (continuing her placements) You do look a lot like Fred, but you don't have his dull disposition. CHUCK: (leaving cage, he crosses and bows) Thank you, your Grace.

385

386

ABRAM HILL SOPHIE: (twirls around, freezes into a pose and curtsies) You are welcome, Sir Chuck. CHUCK: See you later, (exiting, resuming the cage) SOPHIE: Where are you going? CHUCK: (stalling) To the garbage can. SOPHIE: Getting into the trash can is your affair, but the flowers? CHUCK: Mrs. Van Striven ordered me to remove them from the den and discard them. SOPHIE: (stopping her chores) Wait a minute! No complaint's been filed with me. (crosses, inspecting CHUCK'S

flowers)

CHUCK: I

must get fresh ones from the florist. I have to hurry before it closes. SOPHIE: I see nothing wrong with these flowers. CHUCK: The rejection comes not from sight, but from smell. SOPHIE: (after a whiff) They do have the strangest stink! CHUCK: The parrot vomited on them. SOPHIE: (lifting the cage cover) Why, you featherfaced bonehead! CHUCK: She's asleep. According to Mrs. Van Striven, shell sleep as long as her cage is covered. SOPHIE: Asleep, my foot! She's drunk! PARROT: (well, her voice, anyway) Hey, Fred, drop dead! QQQUUUUAAAARRRRKKKK! CHUCK: She's had much more than a swig of whiskey. SOPHIE: Not whiskey! I gave her gin. CHUCK: Why? SOPHIE: She hates flowers! Whenever flowers get more attention than her, she squawks, scratches and bites them. Gin usually calms her down. This time— with such a flower overload—instead of protesting, she just puked! CHUCK: For the duration of the party, she is now confined to the cellar.

ON STRIVERS ROW SOPHIE: That's too doggone much. Covering her cage is enough. Place her in my room. CHUCK: Won't Mrs. Van Striven— SOPHIE: In my room! I got the only pad in the house that's without two or three dozen roses making faces at you. CHUCK: AS you say, Madame, (leaving) SOPHIE: And don't go buy no more flowers. We can't afford them, (CHUCK stops) Lord! You should have heard Papa Van Striven this morning, blasting the budget. CHUCK: I heard him. SOPHIE: (suspiciously) Nothing seems to get past you. What is your story anyway? CHUCK: (impulsively drops the cage) Can I trust you? PARROT: (reacting to the drop, loudly) HEY, FRED, DROP DEAD! HEY, FRED, DROP DEAD!!! SOPHIE: (topping him) Get him out of here before he wakes up the dead! (the PARROT continues as CHUCK grabs the cage and exits foyer left as the PARROT'S voice trails off) A bird in hand is worth two in the bush. A parrot in your fist, twist and don't miss, (resumes placing cut flowers, pauses, trying to recall her count) One hundred and—one hundred and—oh, what the hell! (jams the remaining flowers into a vase already loaded) Two hundred! HENNTPEST: (appears in foyer, from left, dressed in a tuxedo and focusing his camera on SOPHIEJ FOCUS, please. SOPHIE: (with a rose, she strikes a Statue of Liberty pose) Cheeze. (he snaps) You should be sick of taking my picture by now. HENNTPEST: I photograph my wife every day— SOPHIE and HENNTPEST: (this is old hat) "You remind me of her." HENNTPEST: You'll even perform like her if you'll assist me. My cummerbund is shrinking. SOPHIE: (missing it) Your—

387

388

ABRAM HILL HBNNTPEST: (from pocket he reveals his cummerbund) Here, Sophie— SOPHIE: Oh—your vest! Looking like your wife and acting in her place is two— (she gets it on him but not with ease) Different things! HENNTPEST: (innocently) Why, Sophie— OSCAR: (offstage) Forward, MARCH! One, two, three, four—(in a single-file line, the family marches in, led by COBINA. They stop center awaiting orders from the commanding OSCAR; One, two, three, HALT! It may not be the grand march of the ball, but it will do. Take your positions. At ease!

(Yes, HENNYPEST snaps thefamily, gestures approvingly and exits right They form a receiving line at a right angle to the arch doorway so that OSCAR will be the first to greet the guests, DOLLY second, and COBINA third, MRS. PACE is opposite of them, sustaining a detachment They are most properly dressed in evening clothes and jewelry, COBINA wears the traditional deb white and holds a bouquet offlowers in her hands. DOLLY, herfeet hurting and no guests having arrived, poses uncomfortably, OSCAR and MRS. PACE exchange angry glances, SOPHIE gives a last-minute touch to the flowers. DOLLY: If I ever get out of this alive, I shall never stop thanking God. BIRS. PACE: Nobody ever gives God a thought except for about a half-hour on Sundays and fifteen minutes prior to their demise. OSCAR: It is nine-fifteen. Where are the people? MRS. PACE: If anybody shows up besides this Miss Jackson, we're lucky. (The music grows softer) DOLLY: I wish I could be calm. Mother, if you just hadn't insisted on this debut. mis. PACE: YOU should have been calm when you married that. Matchmaking is as old as the hills. My mother's husband was picked. Mine was picked. You became restless and picked that thing out of the woodpile!

ON STRIVERS ROW

There is nothing wrong with my family. MRS. PACE: J u s t the one idiot on your father's side. OSCAR:

(DOLLY goes

to the

window)

COBINA: Stop

worrying, Mother. (crossing correcting bouquet) Cobina, hold that bouquet exactly sixteen inches below the chin, NOW KEEP IT THERE, (returning to her post) SOPHIE: (swaying with sudden inspiration) Joe brought me some flowers once. COBINA: Were they orchids? SOPHIE: Naw—honeysuckles. MRS. PACE: This is no time to discuss flowers with servants! SOPHIE: Did anybody ever bring you any flowers? MRS. PACE: Be quiet! I was showered with flowers. SOPHIE: What, poison ivy? COBINA: (seeing CHUCK was in the hall) Chu-ChuMRS. PACE: What's wrong with you, Cobina? It's only the boy hired to serve. COBINA: (sneezing, faking) Awchu—awchu—was just sneezing. DOLLY: (returning Jrom the window) Not a single car out there. The Van Strivens entertaining and not a block of cars. MRS. PACE: Cobina, stop twisting your neck! You are not a turtle! What are you limping for? DOLLY: I'm walking all right. MRS. PACE: YOU ever see a three-legged bear in a swamp? DOLLY: My foot hurts. MRS. PACE: Wait until the misery climbs up. You will have plenty time to complain then, (the doorbell rings) Someone's coming! DOLLY: (rushes up to the window) I bet it's a Packard. No, it's just a cut-rate cab. MRS. PACE:

(SOPHIE

goes through arch door)

389

390

ABRAM HILL PACE: In line, Dolly. OSCAR: (to MRS. PACEJ Will

you relax? mis. PACE: (whispering quickly) Remember Cobina, shoulders kept straight with all movements from the waist down. Swaying the hips is not permissible. So don't jiggle them like your mother. (The Van Strivens are ready) (offstage) My dear Sophie, am I late? Naw, chile, you is first. I was gitting scared nobody was coming. LILT: (sweeps into the room like a breeze. She is somewhere between twenty and thirty, exotic and glamorous in a sort of theatrical way with hair in an upsweep. She speaks in a deep-throated voice, soft and warm) Cobina! My child, how perfectly sweet! LILY:

SOPHIE:

(COBINA

kisses

smiles and curtsies in her best manner, LILY waits at the door, OSCAR bows)

COBINA, SOPHIE

LILY: Mr. and Mrs. Van Striven, how do you do? (tapping the Van Strivens* palms lightly) DOLLY: (raising her elbows) Hello, Lily—we are glad you came. OSCAR: Indeed we are. Miss Livingston—you are more pretty than ever. LILY: Regardless how bad we women may look in the morning, Oscar, we never wake up needing a shave. (OSCAR

laughs)

MRS. PACE:

Hello, Lily.

LILY: (swaying from DOLLY across the floor) Mrs. Pace, how charming. Everything is so exquisite. Cobina, just like a bride. Aren't you happy? MRS. PACE: (batting her eyes rapidly) Indeed, Lily— and you are on time as usual. LILY: (she holds a pose, exactly like a dancer from the court of King Tut) How could I ever miss this party! Late, no such word in the theater. Punctuality, darling, punctuality! (SOPHIE has moved in. LILY locks

ON STRIVERS ROW

her fingers underneath her chin and sways about the room) What a paradise! Mrs. Pace, the most charming flower in this whole Garden of Eden. MRS. PACE: Oh—Lily, a Harlem garden, but a garden just the same. LILT: Exactly like the last scene in "Gal of Charleston"—the ideal home, the perfect family, and the maid— DOLLY: NOW, Lily, you will spoil Sophie. Take her wrap, Sophie. SOPHIE: If she ever stops fluttering like a butterfly. LILT: My wrap—eh—yes, take it, Sophie. (LILY'S gown is a low-back affair with two panels attached to her shoulders. They beat and Jan the air) SOPHIE: What

a pretty frock! Where'd you git it? LILT: Fifth Avenue SOPHIE: Ain't it gorgeous? Mine is like that. DOLLY: Sophie— LILT: Have no fear. I know Sophie. It comes from Lord and Taylor's. SOPHIE: Mine came from Lord and Numbers. LILT: Really? (DOLLY

nudges SOPHIEJ

SOPHIE: I prayed to the Lord that night before I got it. He gimmie the figuh in my dream. Next day I went right down an bought that frock and— DOLLY: (shoving SOPHIE J I know you want to powder up a bit, Lily. What would a party be without you? LILT: (exiting with DOLLYj Me miss this! Not for the world—Dolly, you are limping! DOLLY: (bracing) Rheumatism, darling— (exits with LILY via arch) SOPHIE: (examining the wrap) Ain't this elegant? MRS. PACE: (harshly) You get out of here! SOPHIE: Lay it on me, Mr. Striven. Lay it on me!

391

392

ABRAM HILL OSCAR: If you persist in addressing the guests, 111 deduct a fine from your salary. SOPHIE: (sincerely) My dough? I'm leaving. MRS. PACE: Get down in the kitchen with the skillets where you belong! Such decorum for a maid. Why, in Washington— OSCAR: Never mind, Mother. mis. PACE: Why don't you make that maid stay in her place? You addressed like that—get below! OSCAR: Take the wrap to the ladies lounge, Sophie. And you had better stay down on the floor below. SOPHIE: (going toward the arch door) All right. I'm leaving tomorrow, (exits) COBINA: She means it, too. MRS. PACE: Good riddance.

(The orchestra

plays)

OSCAR: (direct) This party is costing me too much to have it spoiled by you. I shall do my best to stay out of your way the remainder of the evening. MRS. PACE:

Good!

me a favor? MRS. PACE: (coming center) I make no promise, but what is it? OSCAR: The ribbon around your neck is loose. Tighten it. MRS. PACE: (reaching the back of her neck) It's—It's not loose. OSCAR: Yes, yes, I know, I know, (exits left) MRS. PACE: (dawning, then violently) Why you insulting Jackson—you (exits after OSCARJ COBINA: (laying flowers on the table) I'll be glad when this party is over. CHUCK: (peeping in from the arch door) Cobina! COBINA: (happily, surprised) Chuck! CHUCK: (they go toward each other) Honey! SOPHIE: (passing in the hall interrupts) Hey now! OSCAR: DO

ON STRIVERS ROW (CHUCK

and COBINA stand wanting but frightened)

CHUCK: Oh

she knows, honey—she knows.

SOPHIE: Umm

hmm.

won't tell, Sophie. SOPHIE: Who me—gwan girle. (winks and exits left) COBINA: Oh Chuck! Darling! You scared me nearly to death, when you passed in the hall. Why didn't you warn me? CHUCK: (whispering) I tried to. I had to come. I couldn't take a chance. COBINA: But Mother and Grandmother—Chuck, you shouldn't have come. CHUCK: Oh they think I just came to do some work. Darling, I missed you on the corner, this morning I came here—I— COBINA: Dad came along in the car, he and Granny. They brought me home. What happened? CHUCK: I went downtown to see about a job. COBINA: YOU

COBINA: YOU get

it?

after making me wait an hour. I came back up to our meeting place. No sign of you. I said I was going to be right here, tonight. I made up a tale. I thought sure your mother wouldn't hire me. Sophie made her. Here I am. I am going to serve and see that none of those other guys get you, even Ed— COBINA: Oh, him— CHUCK: Yeah, has he come yet? CHUCK: NO—and

COBINA: NO. CHUCK: Well,

kisses.

give him your hand, but give me your

COBINA: Not

one, just to be formal? You don't want to, do you? COBINA: (reluctantly) I have once. CHUCK: None. CHUCK: Oh.

But kissing him is like scratching a place that doesn't itch. CHUCK: Try mine again, (they kiss) COBINA:

393

394

ABRAM HILL COBINA: Oh,

Chuck—I'm afraid.

(Music swells) CHUCK: But, darling, this is your debut. COBINA: I don't want any debut. I want you. CHUCK: May I have the first dance? (they dance)

Give

them a chance to dance. (The doorbell rings) COBINA: The

door! CHUCK: (dashing about) Where's my tray? COBINA:

(excitedly) You didn't have any. Hurry! Hurry!

(CHUCK exits

through arch door, OSCAR entersfrom

salon)

seem nervous. (She gathers her bouquet OSCAR goes to the door. MRS. PACE entersfrom the salon) OSCAR: YOU

MRS. PACE: Places! Where's Dolly? Where is—Soph— no, that boy? (DOLLY entersfrom hall) It is about time you got here. DOLLY: Oh—I hope it's Judge and Mrs. Tucker. OSCAR: (offstage) Well well well—Brooklyn at her best. Come right in, Ed. (TILLIE enters the arch ED follows, talking in

door, arm in arm with ROWENA. pantomine with OSCAR TILLIE is well-gowned and jeweled. She wears a highpowered society smile, ROWENA is an attractive girl of nineteen or twenty, with a searching stare in her eyes. Shefs dressed with impeccable care, ED is a young man of about twenty-Jive. He wears full dress clothes and carries his top hat with a dash of urbanity, TILLIE speaks with a gloating suspicion) TILLIE: Cobina—Mrs. Van Striven—and of course, Mrs. Pace. COBINA: Hello, Rowena. ROWENA: Hello, Cobina. I know exactly how you feel. Shift into your half squat, child. Get high like I did, bow at nine, out at ten.

ON STRIVERS ROW

ED: Cobina—what an angel you would make! TILLIE: Ed, how could you! Cobina wouldn't think of Father Divine, (sitting on sofa) ED: I didn't mean that— (shaking hands with MRS. PACE) MRS. PACE: We

are pleased that you came. ED: Where there is a debut, you will always find Ed Tucker. COBINA: What will we debs do to ever win you, Ed? ED: Just trust in God and keep your powder dry. TILLIE: Isn't that cute? Ed has a brand of humor all his own. Where there's life there's still hope, Cobina. DOLLY: (to CHUCK,) Take their wraps, Chunk—I mean Chuck! TILLIE: Aren't you the porter who transplants fish? CHUCK: (taking her coat) Yes, Madame. ED: (amused) Well, porter, trot me out some trout! CHUCK: Right this way, please, (CHUCK exits) ROWENA: Auntie—isn't Cobina stunning? TILLIE: White is always pretty, Rowena. It does make one look so plain, like you were when you were confirmed. OSCAR: The bar is wide open, Ed. ED: Bar—you say—liquor. OSCAR: And

how.

(The orchestra plays) ED: Liquor does different things to different people. But it only makes me drunk, (teams up with ROWENAJ ROWENA: Whatever it does to you, it does twice as much to me. Oh sinner, lead me on. (they tango a Jew steps and exit off left followed by OSCAR,) (DOLLY peeps

out of the window)

Looking for someone, Dolly? (coming down center) I don't mind telling you, Tillie, I'm worried. The people, where are they? TILLIE: DOLLY:

395

396

ABRAM HILL TILLIB: I don't know—I thought the place was packed by now. Where's Miss Jackson? DOLLY: Who knows—after all, you'll be rubbing elbows with her. TILLIE: There are times when we simply must condescend. If well-bred must rub elbows with the gutterbred, where else should it be—but in Harlem. DOLLY: (exiting into salon) Sometimes, Tillie, I wonder how you and I manage to live on the same globe. (exiting) TILLIB: You're feeling all right, Mrs. Pace? MRS. PACE: (frigidly) Yes, Petunia, steaming like a kettle. OSCAR: (enters) Give your old dad the first dance, Cobina. COBINA: Certainly, dad— (they exit into salon) MRS. PACE: (moves to center) I see you brought him. TILLIE: Oh—Oh—and such a swell boy. Mrs. Tucker says every deb in New York is after him. MRS. PACE: NOW that's tragic. TILLIE: Isn't it? MRS. PACE: Where are Judge and Mrs. Tucker? TILLIE: Ed said if they approve of a girl, they go to her debut! If not, they stay away, very cordially, of course. So far my niece's debut has been the only one they've attended. Now isn't that strange? MRS. PACE: YOU think you'll take him back? TILLIE: What do you mean? MRS. PACE: YOU know what I mean. TILLIE: That isn't a very friendly question. MRS. PACE: (cuttingly) I can tell my friends from my enemies by their emotional vibrations. TILLIE: Pray tell, what are mine? MRS. PACE: Positively negative. LILY: (outside) Come on now. (LILY swings in from doorway left dancing the "La Congo." HENNYPEST, in a tuxedo, attempts the difficult steps in following her) That's it! Hello, Mrs. Petunia, look what I found.

ON STRIVERS ROW

(to TILLIE j HOW do you do—this time? TILLIE: The same as I was this morning. LILT: (dancing down center) We are doing the La Congo! TILLIE: Bring him back alive! HENNTPEST: (winking) Even otherwise, Mrs. Petunia—I must have a dance with you. TILLIE: It will be a pleasure. LILT: (stopping) You're cute. As D.W. said, "Gal, this is a story of savage love. Feel the heathen in the part. Let yourself go. Let loose every limb." A-a-a-a-hh (she HENNTPEST:

and

HENNYPEST glide

TILLIE:

off)

She took him right into her bosom. That's New York for you. Now, Washing-

MRS. PACE:

ton—

TILLIE: (quickly) And Brooklyn— MRS. PACE: (lecturing like) In Boston, they say "Has he manners?" In Brooklyn, "How much money has he got?" And New York—they say "Let's take the sucker!" TILLIE: That may be true about New York, but Brooklyn— MRS. PACE: (quickly) Just a petticoat for New York's gaudy frock. TILLIE: (rising) You don't know Brooklyn—you never came over there. ants, PACE: Oh, yes I do. I frequent it. TILLIE: TO visit? MRS. PACE: Yes, my father's grave. TILLIE: There's something else in Brooklyn besides graveyards. MRS. PACE: Yes, churches. TILLIE: (huffing) Humph! (exiting into salon) ROWENA: (passing from hall to veranda) My, it's stuffy in here. How about some fresh air on the veranda, Aunt Tillie? MRS. PACE: (cutting in) Your aunt is full of air! All hot!

397

398

ABRAM HILL (ROWENA exits

to veranda. Bell rings)

MRS. PACE: Where's

that boy? (entering from salon) I'll answer it. DOLLY: (entering from hall) This must be something real. Where is Cobina? MRS. PACE: She's with Ed. DOLLY: Oh! Cobina should be right here in the line. MRS. PACE: Never mind, she's got Ed cornered. It's you the one who's spoiling everything—with your silly manners. OSCAR: (offstage) Go right in, Leon! MRS. PACE: (quickly) Stop grinning. You'll scare the daylights out of them. OSCAR:

(LOUISE and LEON enter. They are both in their thirties. LOUISE is the older of the two. Both wear evening clothes with taste, LOUISE may be a bit overdressed to compensate for her unattractiveness. LEON'S attraction

to women is magnetic. His hands are unable to resist female contact.

DOLLY: (very pretentious) Dr. and Mrs. Davis, so glad you came. Louise, that coat, those lines. LOUISE: (in a high-pitched irritated voice) Good evening, Dolly. DOLLY: (flattering) You look like a dark-souled villainess. That coat! LOUISE: It ought to. It cost enough, (DOLLY goes blank) MRS. PACE: Dr. Davis, we were afraid you wouldn't get out of that old hospital. LEON: (going over to MRS. PACEJ Couldn't keep me from this party. I do believe you are getting younger. (MRS. PACE actually blushes) DOLLY: (scrutinizing LOUISE 'S coat) How do you do it, Leon? LEON: (glancing at DOLLYJ What, Mrs. Van Striven? DOLLY: (helplessly) I'm so happy you came, I don't know what to say.

ON STRIVERS ROW LEON: (smiling) Anything you say is all right as long as it is accompanied with your lovely smile. DOLLY: (befuddled) Isn't he simply a darling? Where does he learn such lovely things? LOUISE: I wish I knew. The only times he says them things to me is in his sleep. MRS. PACE: Dolly is already gitting tipsy. Now you go and try to catch up. LEON: (removing his coat) Now you just wait for me, Van Striven. All these attractive ladies. Hmm, as I always say, women grow old from neglect and not from age, eh, Oscar? OSCAR: Oh yes—oh yes. LOUISE: That's why I love him so. Who else can phrase a lie so beautifully? OSCAR: Come on, Leon. I think I have what you need. LOUISE: (nervously) Any strange women down there? DOLLY: NO, dear— LOUISE: He's safe then. Take my wrap, (LEON reaches for it) No, wait— (searching her wrap) Where is it? Where is my—here it is all right, darling. Take it now. (LEON exits with OSCAR LOUISE reveals the objects, her refuge powder puff and lipstick, etc.) DOLLY: (coming down center) Louise, I'm proud of the way your career and marriage succeeded. LOUISE: Under the circumstances, everything is soso, except every week our names lead off the squabble column. That Black Dispatch prints it even if I just pinch the man. DOLLY: (sits on the sofa) Ignore it. One of these days I am going to sue that scandal sheet. MRS. PACE: (sits in the chair facing the sofa) Bravo. Now Dolly, let her enjoy herself. LOUISE: I always do at the Van Strivens'. Excuse me while I check this map I call a face. I surely have to watch out. DOLLY: You're looking like a peach.

399

400

ABRAM HILL LOUISE: As long as there is a beauty parlor and a monthly check, I will feel well armed. I'm not giving up, though. He runs around, but after he gets through chasing Diana around the woods, he always comes back. If he should ever fail to come back— DOLLY: Divorce? LOUISE: Not as simple as that, (with deep feeling) Dolly, be sure Cobina marries a man older than herself. It is no fun to see a man grow robust and handsome while you fight like the very devil to sugar coat the waning forties. Life begins at forty—huh! What a lie. Always there is just one affair after another. I can't make them. I just can't. They wear you down so. He never gets tired. DOLLY: There are plenty other affairs besides these strenuous dances, Louise. LOUISE: They're pretty much the same. Take the art exhibit night before last. A Bohemian atmosphere, they call it. All the guests piled up on Bloomstein's bargain pillows, smoking and drinking, low lights and shocking music. MRS. PACE: (seconding) A society pledged to primitive discipline. DOLLY: Then there are those endless ofay affairs! LOUISE: The whole of the village—ultra modern! DOLLY: SO many of us prefer them. LOUISE: Yes, especially those that—pass. MRS. PACE: (tactfully) You can't escape God and Africa. LOUISE: Don't I know it! I will not attend another on Sugar Hill or anywheres else. Leon might as well let that soak through his plastered head. I get tired of straining my ears trying to hear what he is saying to some doll-faced model! DOLLY: YOU still have the upper hand. A doll face is a handicap. It distracts from the curves. LEON: (enters from the hall) There you are, my little sugar lump. Let's dance.

ON STRIVERS ROW LOUISE:

arm)

(rises) No more liquor for you. (taking

his

LEON: But I had no more than a thimble full, (after a reproachful glare from her) All right, my sweet, just as you say. (LEON and LOUISE exit to left) MRS. PACE: She loves the ground he staggers on. DOLLY: (again at the window) Three lousy cars! Look, mama, look! The Peeping Tom. MRS. PACE: And this is a Van Striven affair. DOLLY: Here I was afraid too many people would come, and instead there is hardly any at all. MRS. PACE: YOU sure they were received? DOLLY: Of course they were. Because they all responded in writing. The Tuckers—they all did. I knew something would happen. I told you this debut would not go over. I knew it. Maybe they think it will be too stiff. Oh, the devil, where is Oscar? MRS. PACE: Drowned in his martini. ROWENA: (entering from veranda) And whom may I ask do you wish such a fate? MRS. PACE: Oh, Rowena, why your fate will lead directly to the island, if you don't stop parading on the veranda without a coat. ROWENA: There's such a lovely breeze sweeping up the street. MRS. PACE: YOU will catch your death of cold in that thin dress. ROWENA: (sitting on sofa) It doesn't bother me. Winter or summer, I take my dip. I'm mad about the water. I just can't resist it. (lights cigarette) Aunt Tillie knows exactly where to find me when I'm missing. Out at the beach home on the sound. MRS. PACE: I imagine you have quite a time keeping up with her. ROWENA: In a way. Auntie gets about more than I do. Yesterday, she was in New Rochelle, Mt. Vernon, and then down to East Orange, all in the space of two short hours.

401

4O2

ABRAM HILL PACE: (sits in chair facing her) She has an abundance of energy. ROWENA: And how! When she got home this afternoon, she had been to a dozen places, then phoned an army of people— MRS. PACE: (carefully) But weren't you with her this morning and the balance of the day? ROWENA: TO keep up with that human rocket! No, I missed her at the trade building. Mind you, there only ten minutes and was gone. She travels like a gale of wind. MRS. PACE: (nodding) And she called a number of people? ROWENA: Oh yes, quick calls. All of them but Mrs. Tucker. She talked for hours— MRS. PACE: (smelling a rat) Mrs. Tucker? ROWENA: Yes, Ed's mother, (MRS. PACE snaps her fingers) Why, Mrs. Pace, you look so queer. What— MRS. PACE: (rising) Excuse me, Rowena. ROWENA: Must you go? MRS. PACE: I am going to do a bit of phoning myself. ROWENA: (crossing to phone) May I dial for you? I'd simply love to. MRS. PACE: (going toward hall door) That phone there is a little too public. The one upstairs is much more suitable for dishing dirt. ROWENA: See you later, (thinking aloud) I wonder what I said? (wanders toward hall door) Young man—I say, hey you— (CHUCK enters nervously) Well, if you don't mind. Pardon me for interruption— CHUCK: I—I wasn't doing anything. ROWENA: (walking down center coyly) Oh, but you were. How can I spoil your moment of ecstasy. It was all about you like a veil. CHUCK: IS there something I can do for you, Miss? ROWENA: DO for me—oh yes—I would like for you to get a drink. CHUCK: Yes, Miss, what kind?

T ON STRIVERS ROW ROWENA: Oh

some of that bull shot. (puzzled) Bull—I ain't—I—that is—I'm working for Mr. Van Striven. J u s t for the party, you know. Nice gentleman, Mr. Van Striven. ROWENA: (shrewdly) And a nice daughter? CHUCK: What you mean, Miss—er—Cobina is a very beautiful, that is— ROWENA: Sweet? CHUCK: I think so. I guess so— ROWENA: YOU should know. I saw you kiss her. CHUCK: (amazed) You hadn't come. Where were you? ROWENA: Oh, tonight too—dear, dear. I meant last Wednesday, the actors' benefit at the Savoy. CHUCK: (seizing her) Why—er—you—you didn't tell? You can't. You'll spoil everything. Please, Rowena, please! Please don't. Promise me? (COBINA enters from the left) Promise me! You must! You must! COBINA: (dumbfounded) Chuck! CHUCK:

(Doorbell rings) CHUCK: (whirling around) I was just—er—er— COBINA: (she looks at ROWENA and bites her lip.

The bell rings. She braces angrily) The doorbell is ringing! CHUCK: (pleadingly) But Cobina, I can explain everything. COBINA: The doorbell is ringing! (CHUCK

rushes out into the hall)

(pointing) Aha. I thought you were coming from the weekends just a little too often. COBINA: What are you talking about? ROWENA:

(OSCAR

and DOLLY enter from

salon)

ROWENA: I understand, kiddo, as a servant he looks about as much at home as a bear in a penthouse.

(The orchestra

plays)

DOLLY: (excitedly) Where is your nosegay? Where is mother? Where is Sophie? Get set!

403

404

ABRAM HILL

(studying) Were they kissing? DOLLY: What—who—where—who's kissing? OSCAR: (booms) Relax, for God's sakes! CHUCK: (offstage) Yes ma'am, come right in, ma'am. COBINA:

(COBINA gets in line, breathlessly, nosegay)

after getting her

(RUBY enters from arch door, happy and smiling. She is a woman of thirty-nine, dressed in an ostentatious outfit with a feather sticking straight up in her hair. She walks with an exaggerated restraint. Her mouth is filled with gold. She speaks anxiously and hopefully)

Good evening. DOLLY: (Opens her mouth, but is unable to speak. She is shocked. She sways slightly and catches herself again as OSCAR tries to smile with exasperation) Good heavens! COBINA: (curtsying) How do you do? OSCAR: Miss Jackson—my wife, Mrs. Van Striven— my daughter, Cobina. RUBY: (to COBINA, grinning) Hello, baby. You're cute as a chorus girl, (coming down center timidly) You all can come on in, Beulah, I guess. RUBY:

(BEULAH cuts in from the arch door, as if she has just finished the final step in the lindy hop. She is a loose swaying girl of twenty-two. She has a mass of curled hair, pigeon toes and a dissipating face. She wears a tight coat, split skirt, and a tarn. She walks an arresting switch, with her hands stuck in her sides) BEULAH: Hi,

everybody—the stuff is heah. DOLLY: (gasping) Pinch me, Cobina, am I breathing? BEULAH: Bring me a pint of gin and sixteen glasses. Ouch! COBINA: (curtsying) Glad you came. BEULAH: (to COBINA; I'm Beulah—whatcha squattin' foh?

ON STRIVERS ROW (DOLLY starts

forward, OSCAR restrains her)

COBINA: It's the vogue. BEULAH: Thought

belt.

you'd done got too tight under the

(blasting) Oscar! OSCAR: Yes, dear, of course, {(to RUBYJ Miss Jackson, after all—you understand that— RUBY: Shore, honey—I know, but Beulah and Joe fell in for a little snack an' I jus' had to bring 'em with me. It was that or I would have to stay away. DOLLY: YOU should have done the latter. OSCAR: (with a saving grace) We will go right in and rest your things. DOLLY:

(BEULAH

flinging

moves in on OSCAR and squeezes her fur piece in his arm)

his hand,

BEULAH: Rest the mink, papa. You an' me is gonna have heaps of fun. (DOLLY steps in and gets a whiff of BEULAH's breath and stumbles back) Just gin chile. (laughing) The old dame busted her kickers. DOLLY: Miss—please! BEULAH: (shifting her weight) I'm Beulah. RUBY: Yes mum, Mrs. Van Striven, that's my friend Beulah. Joe's comin— DOLLY: (angrily) So what? BEULAH: SO I'm Beulah! OSCAR: (going toward hall door) This way, please. BEULAH: (shouting) Wait for Joe!

(JOE is heard entering offstage. Music fades) JOE: (offstage) Scram, sam. Get lost! You nickel snatching taxi driver! (JOE enters archway from right. He is about twentyfive. A man about town, anyway a man about certain towns, or if you will, certain parts of all towns. His associates call him a "hepped cat/* Togged out in a draped coat that pinches in shapely at the waist and then blossoms about his hips and ends with a

405

406

ABRAM HILL

snazzy flare. His britches stand way up about under his arm pits and are hitched even higher by his gaudy braces over the shoulders. His pants peg down to the top of his shoes, ballooning a bit at the knees. His hat of a Tyrolean version shades his features in the best tin-horn gangster manner. He speaks to CHUCK behind him) JOE: Hi, folks, I'm Joe the Jiver. (freezes, posing the hep cat's stance—his arms down, his fists tight his forefingers pointing outward from the sides) OSCAR: That's er—er—Joe—Joe— JOE: (bending and bracing up, he is all over the room in a showqff manner) What a dommy from pistromy. Dig the layout. It's a solid killer from maniller. Get off that pillar. RUBY: (tickled high-pitched laughter) Joe keeps me laffing all the time. BEULAH: Fall in, Joe. The joint is jumping. COBINA: (curtsying) How are you? (DOLLY yanks

COBINA

backward)

JOE: (to COBINAJ Lamp the chick. Mellow as a chellow. She lays that thing. Same as I was a king. OSCAR: (indignantly) That's my daughter. JOE: Dig pop's gait sharp as attack, hard as a nail. Them powerful tails dangle like a whale, (OSCAR walks away) Some vine, pop. Dig mine, (lifting the lapels of his coat) DOLLT: Mr.—

JOE: Smothers, Joe Smothers! DOLLT: AS this is a formal affair— JOE: (advances on DOLLY, she walks away, half frightened) Don't play cheap, I ain't no bo peep. Let me get you straight. 'Fore it is too late. I'm here to stay, so on your way. (turning away from her) That chick comes on like an Eskimo. DOLLT: (hatefully) I would like to speak to you alone!

ON STRIVERS ROW

JOE: Come 'round any day but Thursdays. That's when sud-busters git their pay. Ill 'spect you around. So don't let me down. I'll lay some spiel that'll bust your heel! OSCAR: (with an effort) Mr. Smothers, you'll find the bar downstairs. I'm sure you are more interested in that! JOE: (snappingly) Right, Jack Lark! That's where I park with a fine skin in the dark. BEULAH: (snapping herfingers, she jumps back and wiggles. Gazing to the back parlor) Whoo-ie—that's Tom Wild and his Wildcats playing. Look at them broads struggling. DOLLY: Struggling? BEULAH: Dancing, dame, dancing! JOE: That's nothin', they's shuffle and mug like they've been drugged. Let me light up and cut some rug. (Music reaches BEULAH: This

crescendo)

ball is a slight drag. JOE: Don't whine, wait'll I put up my sign. Look out biffers' 'urn coming on like the March of Time, yippee! (JOE rushes center, bending and bracing up in rhythm with the music, BEULAH raises and flaps her arms as she begins the break in the lindy hop. They dance wildly. The music comes up in full. They make the place jump, DOLLY swoons against OSCAR in exasperation, OSCAR tries to get things under control again, coBINA is amused. She snaps her fingers and sways as CHUCK looks about helplessly) Ain't this a killer—hey hey! (JOE swings around with BEULAH who hops back, runs toward him as he swings her around) DOLLY: (screaming in exasperation with her hand raised high) Stop the wildcats! (as she stops within JOE'S dance range, BEULAH'S swinging leg hits DOLLY'S foot, DOLLY screams in pain) My foot! (Music blasting)

407

4O8

ABRAMHILL OSCAR: (rushing to DOLLY, upsets COBINA, bouquet and all) My wife! COBINA: (excitedly) My flowers!

(Complete freeze of action and music) BEULAH: (being dropped to the floor, sits rubbing her side) My ass! (RUBY does not say a word) (Curtain)

ACT II Scene 1 Scene: The same as Act II, Scene 1. Time: A few minutes later. Sustain: At the rise of the curtain, OSCAR is sitting on the sofa. He is mopping his brow and trying very hard to get over the recent escapade. He talks to RUBY, who sits near him. (The orchestra plays) RUBY: (pathetically) I know Joe would be sort of out of place, but he is so full of life, usually people beg me to bring him along. These—that is, your kind don't understand him. OSCAR: That's all right, Miss Jackson. Forget them. RUBY: Yes suh, but Mrs. Van Striven's foot, oh, I'm so sorry T3out that. OSCAR: (clearing his throat) That's nothing. She'll be all right. Now this dump—er, this piece of ground is right in the heart of the new upcoming community. Five lots and— RUBY: Well—that is, I only want to entertain the best. Are there any high-toned folks out there? OSCAR: Just as grand as these are here, if not better. RUBY: Does Mrs. Van Striven know them? OSCAR: I believe she knows some very fine Long Island families.

ON STRIVERS ROW RUBY: Then shell introduce me sorter formal-like to them? You know, all elegant with a lot of noise. Ill throw a house-warming out there thatll be heard from here to Krum Elbow! OSCAR: (scratching his head) I think we'd better dance, (rises and offers his arm) COBINA: (enters from hall door) Dad, Mother says will she have to send down here for you again? OSCAR: Someone has to stay down here and take care of the guests. Is she any better? COBINA: Her foot is better, but her grandiloquence still pains. OSCAR: That will heal in due time. Tell her I will be up shortly. COBINA: But, Dad, she won't come down until you— OSCAR: Shortly, Cobina, shortly! TILLIE: (entering from salon) Isn't this a lovely ball, Miss Jackson? RUBY: AS rambunctious as Park Avenue. We is class, ain't we? (OSCAR

and RUBY exit into salon)

TILLIE: (ironically) Aren't we though! BINA/ Some debut, isn't it, Cobina?

(noticing CO-

COBINA: I wish Mama thought so. Excuse me, as I have to tell her what Dad said, (exits through hall door, TILLIE tips to salon door and calls LOUISEJ TILLIE: H-s-s-s-s-st! LOUISE: (backing in, talking to LEONJ I said dance, not squeeze the life out of her. LEON: (entering from salon) I am, Louise, I am. LOUISE: Why do you hold her so tight? You don't hold me that way. LEON: NOW, Louise— ROWENA: (enters from salon and slips her hand under his arm) All right, Dr. Davis—we can finish now. LEON: (watching LOUISE) Oh yes—oh yes! LOUISE: (to ROWENAJ Be sure it's the dance you mean.

409

41O

ABRAMHILL ROWENA: (childing) (ROWENA and LEON exit

Oh my—my— into salon)

LOUISE: (watching them) I hope I don't have to break his neck before twelve o'clock. TILLIE: YOU don't think Leon and Rowena— LOUISE: (suggestively) She's woman— TILLIE: YOU know Rowena better than that. LOUISE: Oh, it isn't just for her, everybody he dances with. You wait until I get him home. Tillie, you ought to be glad your husband is dead, (sits on the sofa powdering her face) TILLIE: Safe in heaven, thank God—er—You'll have something on your hands soon as that Joe and Beuiah get together again. LOUISE: Attractive? TILLIE: YOU heard of a face that would stop a clock? Well, Beuiah would silence a telephone. LOUISE: Not one iota of difference to Leon, he never looks that high. If I catch him near her—why did I come. Honestly, I should have taken your advice this afternoon. TILLIE: YOU see the inner circle stayed at home . . . LOUISE: J u s t why did you put in an appearance, after what you said? TILLIE: Oh, well, I have a score to settle. LOUISE: But I do believe you've gone too far. ED: (enters from salon, he staggers a bit) Where's that little imp, Cobina. If she can't duck down to that bar more than anything I have ever seen. TILLIE: Ed is so handsome when he is mad, isn't he? LOUISE: (indifferently) A handsome lover is one thing, (ED exits through hall door, LOUISE leans over to TILLIE,) A good husband is another. I pity Cobina if she gets him. TILLIE: (quickly) Or Rowena— LOUISE: (bewildered) What?

ON STRIVERS ROW

(softly) Didn't you know— But Dolly said— TILLIE: That's what she thinks. LOUISE: I believe in fighting in the open. TILLIE: Maybe you'd better change your technique. LOUISE: (efficiently) I haven't done so badly. Standing on my feet seven hours a day, singing out verbs to a bunch of dumb brats, getting by on a bowl of chili and cut-rate frock, all to put him through medical school. Now, he's all rosy and popular. Debonair, they say. Well, I'm fattening no frogs for any snakes. He knows I'm not going to keep on fighting in the dark or otherwise—he's mine and the female creature that tries to really take him from me will gaze up at the Harlem moon underneath six feet of woodlawn dirt! TILLIE: Woodlawn? LOUISE: Cemetery. He winks at every young thing he sees now. I'm not jealous, but— TILLIE: Well, you take a woman like that Ruby Jackson. LOUISE: SO the Ruby Jackson came. TILLIE: What a headline! "Pimp and Pal Wreck Society Gal." LOUISE: NOW, Tillie, that's what I have been wanting to talk to you about. That bar Black Dispatch is— ED: (enters with COBINAfrom hall) I found her at the bar guzzling as usual. COBINA: (halting to powder her nose) Wait—let me get this shine off. TILLIE: (enviously) Cobina, you seem a bit limited in your selections tonight! COBINA: I have what I want. LOUISE: (happily) Is that so—oh, Ed is— COBINA: They didn't have to give this party for me. I had him all the time. ED: (\vith self-esteem) Don't be too sure. COBINA: (brusquely) What—you—what sparrow pecked that into your head? TILLIE:

LOUISE:

411

412

ABRAM HILL

ED: (abashed, he takes her arm) I don't got you. Lower that mirror so I can see your face. COBINA: (jerking away) Wait—wait— ED: (to TILLIEJ I get tired of these girls with their fiveand-ten faces. They listen to you with one hand, touching up a string of hair, while holding a mirror with the other. (HENNYPEST

enters from

salon)

A woman's prerogative. LOUISE: And a final refuge. COBINA:

(HENNYPEST

gestures to TILLIEJ

TILLIE: (to HENNYPESTJ One moment, Professor. We can't miss this. ED: (avoiding) You put your entire trust in physical manifestations. You are perfectly confident in the right shade of nail polish, the perfect number of oily curls, lips of a shady red ink. Don't they, Professor? HENNTPEST: Well, now, that is— COBINA: (interrupting) A lecture on the philosophy of woman. You are becoming serious, (she winks at TILLIE and LOUISEJ Before you go too deep, what do you expect in the fairer sex? ED: Something pretty scarce around here, brains! COBINA: Oh be still! Brains, that's just a camouflage for your overweening arrogance. Take us for what we are. Not for what you want us to be in your narrow little heart. What sort of an opinion is that? ED: Mine! The sensible one, the one of any real man. COBINA: Real man? You mean an impetuous youth. Surely, Professor, you do not agree with him? HENNTPEST: (moves down center) I am not sure it would be wise for me to get into this. COBINA: Name me just one man, one great man, who hasn't had the love of a woman to push him on—to just— ED: J u s t so much dead weight.

ON STRIVERS ROW HENNTPEST: (to EDJ I don't think so. The heart of a woman does more to mankind than all the gold and silver that ever has been mined. She has a smile for every joy, a tear for every sorrow, a consolation for every grief—for every fault, a tolerant forgiveness, and a prayer for every hope. ED: It doesn't matter. I understand them perfectly. HENNTPEST: Then go to the head of the class. Ahead of the philosophers, scientists, poets, musicians, and psychologists who have fallen in their zest to analyze woman. The fact is that woman doesn't understand herself. She has yet to be solved. The few men who have been silly enough to think that, they had either learned of their mistake before they died, or passed into eternity as congenital idiots. COBINA: (coy) Idiots! TILLIE: (directly to HENNYPESTJ That could have been left out. ED: (touching his moustache lightly) Aw—anyway, they're made to love, not to understand. Their charm, their beauty, their glory has all been reduced to a price— HENNTPEST: Of all other attributes of vices, the personal piety born of chastened love is woman's crowning charm. Can there be love without understanding? ED: But you said they are not understandable— HENNTPEST: Indeed, indeed, like the stars and flowers, her presence imports warmth and life-giving energy to hearts bowed down. Her influence bends earth to heaven and heaven to earth. Do we understand the universe? (LOUISE nods with affirmation). No, (LOUISE relaxes innocently) We only think we do. Does the universe understand us? (LOUISE looks askingly) I believe it does. Such is the position of woman. You give her the proper love. I am sure the understanding will come about in due time. LOUISE: (exuberant) Professor Hennypest, that is beautiful. Isn't it, Mrs. Petunia?

413

414

ABRAMHILL TILLIE:

(casually) I have heard it before.

(The orchestra plays) COBINA: And you will forever. Truth withstands both the tide and the times. ED: (unaffected) If a woman can't tell me she loves me first, then she can use the first door out. This chivalry stuff is just so much nonsense. I can get along without her very well. TILLIE: Don't let them get the best of you, Ed. COBINA: (in praise) Oh, Professor, what an intricate mechanism we women are. Really, it's—it—Louise, aren't you glad you are a woman? TILLIE: (rises and goes to EDJ Ed, you know you can't judge us here. This is Harlem. There are women—that is, girls—well, you know. Now you take Brooklyn. We have— CHUCK: (entersfrom hall door. He carries a drink on the tray) Bull shot! TILLIE: (whirling to CHUCKJ What? (COBINA

laughs, LOUISE sits dreamingly

on the sofa)

CHUCK: (looking about) Re—er, Miss Rowena called for—bull shot. (ED

moves toward CHUCKJ

(to CHUCKJ You might have called for her first. CHUCK: I'm sorry. Will you have one? ED: I don't drink this Harlem hootch.

ED:

(TILLIE

smiles at COBINAJ

COBINA: Give it to me. (She takes the drinkbefore ED can stop her. Sits on chair at right) ED: (both rivals on either side of COBINAJ That's the third time I have seen you carry a glass to your lips. (COBINA gulps the drink down) LEON: (enters followed by HENNYPEST. LEON very carefully removes from his shoulder a string of hair, looks to see if LOUISE saw it. He throws it away quickly, then goes to her) Our dance, Louise.

ON STRIVERS ROW LOUISE: (looking up at him with a marked dumbness) Oh Leon, do you know what an intricate mechanism woman is? LEON: (mysteriously) What the Sam Hill are you talking about? LOUISE: (hunching him with her elbow) You would! Come on. LEON: But baby— LOUISE: (on her way out) That's nice what you say, but to hold him you have to wake up what's worse in him. (LOUISE

and LEON exit into salon)

Madame Petunia, will you— (disgustedly) Good grief. I might as well get it over with, (exits into salon with HENNYPESTJ COBINA: (returning glass to CHUCK,/ It was swell. ED: Who asked you? HENNTPEST: (TO TILLIEJ TILLIE:

CHUCK: NO one.

ED: Well, mix them, but don't mix in. COBINA: (to EDJ You are going too far. You stop bulldozing him. He's working for Dad. CHUCK: (starts away) I must get back to the bar. ED: (to CHUCKJ Come back here! CHUCK: (stopping) Listen, pal— ED: Pal? CHUCK: (with force) As man to man. Maybe you don't like me. Well, I don't like you either. ED: If you were swinging that tray for ofays, you wouldn't be talking like you are. CHUCK: That has nothing to do with it. COBINA: Daddy will not tolerate you speaking to him in that manner. CHUCK: (giving ED a coin) No, thank you—I'm paid. COBINA: (to EDJ You're making me sick! Chuck is just as good as you are. He's a member of Alpha Beta Zeta, the same as you are.

415

416

ABRAMHILL

ED: What? COBINA: Yes, and— ED: What chapter? CHUCK: (to EDJ Aida Chapter—snake! (both do a razzle-dazzle handshake and afrat gesture) ED: They're letting in anything now. (to COBINAJ Are you dancing or not? COBINA: I've changed my mind. They're dying for you in there. (ED exits into salon) CHUCK: And that's what COBINA: Darling—I gave

they want to put off on you. him a look that hasn't been washed in years. You know I wouldn't have him with a down payment on a radio. JOE: (swings in from salon with BEULAH, both slightly drunk) Old Jim Pool from Liverpool. Cut that powerful muggin' and gruggin'. BEULAH: (clapping her hands) Come on, you dicties. Swing out. Di-di-di-dum-dum. JOE: (snapping his fingers.—Jumping back, LILYappears just inside the room) What's your story, Morning Glory? Git off the shelf. Swing yourself. LILT: (moves in nearer) Aha! (LILY swings a couple of times) JOE: Come on, Garbo, blow your top. (She stops dead still) LILT: I beg your pardon. JOE: Don't start puffin'. You ain't done nothin'. TILLIE: (peeps in from the hall) What is this? JOE: If you can't fall, stick to the wall. Joe is takin' charge, (TILLIE emerges) Git back, granny-hep-hep. You're too large, (TILLIE recedes) BEULAH: Here I come, Papa. On your mark. JOE: (to CHUCK) Stack some ham on that platter. Tray away, what's the matter?

ON STRIVERS ROW CHUCK: Food is served on the floor below. JOE: (stopping the strutting) I ain't no square from Delaware, nor bloke from Idaho. Grab that platter. Take some air. Who's gwine eat on any flooh? COBINA: (to CHUCK quickly) Wait on the veranda for me, Chuck. (CHUCK

exits through French doors)

JOE: Say chick, you're crumpy as a Uneeda biscuit. LILT: Cobina, who is this man? COBINA: Mr. Smothers, Joe Smothers. LILT: Delighted, I'm sure. JOE: Send my brown body to the morgue. BEULAH: YOU kill me with that drawl. Where's Professor Chickenbreast? (exits into salon) LILT: I'm not the slightest bit amused. JOE: YOU let me down to the ground. Let me show you the town, (LILY smiles) COBINA: I believe you can take care of yourself, (exits through French doors) JOE: (getting close to LILYJ Them big black eyebrows. Them long lashes. They flop a breeze that causes me to squeeze. A fine feeling shakes my frame. Gosh, ain't this a shame! LILT: (crossing) Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha— JOE: (right on LILYJ Getcha! Hoi! Hoi! There's plenty squares who can slave. But a hard-cuttin' lover is in the rave. LILT: With whom did you come? JOE: (sing-song) Ruby—Ruby Tutti-fruity. LILT: Now I understand. JOE: Don't jump in the amen row. Ruby's jus' lousy with dough. LILT: (a new interest) From the sweepstakes? JOE: A hundred and fifty grand. Old slick Joe is the man. Swing out with me a while. I'll tog you out in style. LILT: Listen, big boy, don't jive me now.

417

418

ABRAMHILL

JOE: Believe me if I sing you in praise—a half a hundred tender ways. Believe me if I still repeat that you are glamorous and sweet. But if you see my glances stray, just shrug and look the other way. And don't believe, dear, nor weep if I tell my secrets in my sleep. (COBINA and CHUCK enter from veranda, down hall, COBINA watches JOE and

CHUCK

exits

I'm a woman of the stage, you know. COBINA: Lily, do you know what you are doing? LILY: AW, does anyone? JOE: (elated) Lily, your wit, your repartee, good God, you knock a hole in me. They are like your face and neck, overwhelm me. Dazzle me! Send me! Leave me a perfect wreck! SOPHIE: (dashes in from foyer left) Joe, Joe, I— JOE: (whirls around startled) Sophie Slow, ready as a radio! SOPHIE: (leaps into his arms, LILY is indignant) Bust me, Joe. Bust me! My Joe. Good ole Joe. Sharp as a tack. Ain't them the togs I brought cha? LILT: (looking around helplessly, tosses her head back) That took the starch out of him. COBINA: Sophie, is that your he? SOPHIE: In the flesh. My Joe, ain't he cute? JOE: I thought you pulled your slave act in the Bronx. SOPHIE: Naw, babe, I cut out. No more of that fifteen cents an hour for me. Up there they nelly starved me to death with that cheese and pumpinicker bread. I like here better. I kin fuss all I wants. Boy, that drape hugs you tight as your skin. You been jiving Lily? LILT:

(crosses to

LILYJ

he amused me. SOPHIE: I know. Different name but same feelin'! Come on up to my room, Joe. LILT: NO,

(LILY

hustles into parlor)

ON STRIVERS ROW

JOE: Naw, honey, don't be funny. I got to stash down here. SOPHIE: I nevah knowed you hung out with the swanks, you and your pranks. COBINA: Sophie, if Mother sees you— SOPHIE: That's right. Say, Joe, I got to git below. JOE: YOU fall on down. I got to kill some wine an' be right down in a half of chime. (SOPHIE

exits Joy er left)

COBINA: Mr.

Smothers, you seem completely put out. JOE: (sitting on sofa) Listen chile, out, out awhile. None of your jinks, I got to think. RUBY: (enters from back parlor) Miss Cobina, kin you tell me where your ma is? COBINA: Up in her room, I think. Ill try to find her. RUBY: Never mind, maybe she's busy. COBINA: I don't mind (exits through foyer left) RUBY: Joe, has you been smokin' any marianna weeds? (sits beside JOEJ JOE: Cut out that innocent act. I'm gittin' outah this shack? (RUBY takes his arm) RUBY: But babe, I'm having a ball. You must be, too. You wanted to come so bad. JOE: I just wanna leave. Let go my sleeve! RUBY: What done happen? 'Course you should nah come on so hard. JOE: That ain't it atall. I'm leaving, that's all. One thing I don't do. Cross my chicks, they git me blue. RUBY: I ain't crossed you. I let you jive them biggies. (TILLIE

enters from parlor)

JOE: I ain't callin' no name, (sees TILLIEJ Cut out. I gotta spiel to this dame, (RUBY rises and exits slowly foyer left JOE urges her on. He shouts at her) Beat it stuff. I don't wanna git rough (sits on sofa) TILLIE: Mr. Smothers—

419

420

ABRAM HILL JOE: Can it! TILLIE: S-s-s-sh.

JOE: (boisterously) None of that high-falutin' junk. What the hell you take me for, a chump? TILLIE: What, Joe—what's the matter? JOE: YOU got me on the run, woman. She knocked me for my fun. TILLIE: Who, Mrs. Van Striven? You do just what I told you— JOE: When I fell in through that door, I didn't 'spect to see Sophie Slow. TILLIE: Will you stop that silly rhyme and tell me just what is— JOE: Just this. You put me into a chick of mine who's worse than a nest of starving monkeys when she's riled. How can I wreck this joint with her— TILLIE: YOU mean that awful maid? JOE: Better say that when she's out of sight. She swings a mean fist when she fights. TILLIE: IS she one

of—

JOE: Yeah, what of it? TILLIE: I gave you credit for having better use of your talents, (sits close to JOEJ But listen, don't let me down now. Make everybody miserable. Start a fight or something. Ruin them. Give them a pain in the neck. That dancing was great stuff. Raise the tin roof off this stable, (marked bitterness) These Van Strivens and their uppish ways! JOE: I don't know. They seem sorter nice. TILLIE: Nice—they're mean little people who'll shrink up and die from one good scandal. JOE: But Ruby wants to be a muckitymuck. I have to— TILLIE: YOU do your job. When Ruby wants to meet society. I'll give her a sendoff. These jittery quacks do nothing but try to impress their neighbors and live in constant agitation and comparison with me. (walks down center) Me, Tillie Petunia!

ON STRIVERS ROW

JOE: What about the old dame with the ramrod up her back? She passed me like greased lightning. TILLIE: (turns, coming center) That imitation of a Victorian. She's the sharpest-tongued one of these strivers. Don't let her scare you. Shell fidget and squirm if you blow your nose hard. Rip all the sham off all of them, (LILY enters from parlor, TILLIE rises quickly) Oh, Lily—we were just talking about you. LILY: That shows importance. Importance is quite essential, you know, (LILY relaxes on sofa, TILLIE snaps the wall lights off, darkening the room with the exception of a beam light TILLIE exits left) JOE: (easing up behind LILYJ DO you dig, do you dig? Let this pig fit your jig. LILT: NO, thank you! JOE: (easing around edge of sofa, creeping closer to LILYJ Light up and grow limp, Lily. LILY: I want to enjoy a moment of solitude. Miss Livingston to you. JOE: (beside LILYJ Lemme stash my frame on that freakish lounge, while that glimmer beats down on my woolly-kong and tickle out the Romeo in me. LILY: The Smothers technique is back. JOE: Never got out from my chest, just a short recess. LILY: I'm a wicked woman. (The orchestra plays) JOE: Wickedness is for a lady, goodness for a hag. The first sends me. The last one is a drag. LILY: What do you want me to do? JOE: Bust me with your beauty. You're such a cutie. LILY: I'm not that beautiful. JOE: Enough for me, babe, you seem so true. I gotta lay this hard love on you. LILY: If you love like you lie, you're good. JOE: I'm better than that, I'm a hepped cat. (JOE leans over LILY, who squires and squirms) Easy—easy,

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ABRAM HILL

don't start wringling. Watch your skin start tingling. (LILY kisses JOE quickly, JOE kicks and jumps up in delight) Whooie! Bo-peep, come and git your sheep! OSCAR: (rushes in from parlor) Miss Livingston, what are you doing? LILY: (jumping up quickly) Just—just a scene, Mr. Van Striven! OSCAR: (turning up lights) A scene—a scene—these lights. JOE: (all over the room) Yeah, Jack, the mad scene from Gimbels' basement. BEULAH: (enters from parlor) Say, Papa, let's finish our dance. OSCAR: Sorry—I must see my wife, (exits through arch door left) BEULAH: (scornfully) The guy has to git permission from his dame. CHUCK: (rushes in from foyer left) Where is Miss— Cobina? LILT: I—I don't know. (ED enters from parlor) ED: Oh—pardon me! (turns) JOE: (to ED with a purpose) Say, Jim—Cobina—you seen her? ED: (reproachfully) What—and you too? JOE: What's that? ED: (points to CHUCK,/ Him—and now you? CHUCK: I don't get you, pal. ED: I thought you weren't playing that role for nothing. What a damn cheap trick! JOE: (raising his fist) Don't bite off too much. LILT: Ed Tucker, you'd better— JOE: (CHUCK and ED face to face) Easy, honey, this is funny. The well-bred and the gutter-bred gonna bust heads. CHUCK: (to EDJ I ain't looking for no trouble.

ON STRIVERS ROW

ED: Plenty nerve. Who do you think you are fooling, anyway? (JOE encircles CHUCK and EDJ BEULAH: Look out—let me git a ringside special. (stands up in a chair) ED: SO you took Cobina to the actors' benefit.

(JOE edges them out) LILT: IS that

the fellow she was with? ED: (swearing at him) You're the guy who's been taking up all her time, the reason why she breaks all her dates with me. You upstart. Why don't you stay in the alley with the rest of— COBINA: (dashes in from parlor) What is this? ED: What's the idea going around with him pretending you like me? COBINA: What are you talking about? CHUCK: (quickly) Rowena just told him. He knows, Cobina. COBINA: (to EDJ Well—well, it's my business. You might as well know now— ED: I'll see what Mrs. Van Striven has to say. COBINA: Well, go ahead! JOE: He's gonna r u n and tell Mama. CHUCK: NOW listen— ED: Take your filthy hands off me— (JOE pushes CHUCKJ BEULAH: (slugging the air) Pile drive him. Break down his bridge work! ED: YOU— (JOE steps in to push CHUCK into ED. At this moment, ED ducks, COBINA screams. The blow catches JOE in the face, JOE knocks ED down near the sofa, BEULAH leaps up and down in the chair up left) BEULAH: Plaster him in the kisser. This is a killer, just like a Saturday night at the Hole-in-the wall.

423

424

ABRAM HILL COBINA: (screaming) CHUCK: (to JOE) What

affair.

Stop it-—stop it! did you do that for? This is my

LILY: Mrs. Van Striven— JOE: (tapping his thumb one—come all. (DOLLY enters

with his tongue) Come

at arch door)

CHUCK: (lets loose a lightning blow, JOE spins around—staggers blindly—stumbles and Jails at BEULAti'sJeet) You started it. COBINA: Chuck—Chuck—don't! Papa—Mama—somebody! TILLIE: (rushes in from the parlor. She sees ED knocked out on the floor. She runs over to him, screaming hysterically, ROWENA stops in the door) Ed, darling—oh, his face is bruised, (she kisses him tenderly) Ed—oh, Ed—(shouting at CHUCK,/ YOU dare strike him—you— CHUCK: I didn't do it. COBINA: Joe did it. Joe, it was (BEULAH

he.

lifts JOE to his feet)

TILLIE: (screaming at JOEJ YOU Lenox Avenue lizard. Ill have you put in jail. JOE: YOU said wreck it, start a fight— TILLIE: (holding ED'S head in her arms) Not him— (ED is coming to) Ed, darling— (to JOEJ YOU fool—you backdoor pimp! DOLLY: (confused with anger) Wreck it—wreck what? (TILLIE rises slowly, DOLLY is right in back of her. TILLIE 'S eyes blink) TILLIE: (trembling) Nothing, I— JOE: (angrily) What the hell, she told me to wreck your party. Make it a scandal. DOLLY: Scandal—my party—my greatest party— (DOLLY swings TILLIE around, facing her)

ON STRIVERS ROW

JOE: Sure she did. Ask her. Told me to come along with Ruby. Get some hoodlums, like Beulah, and make the ball a flop. TILLIE: That's a lie. BEULAH: (to TILLIEJ You beefy hussy! TILLIE: (pleading) He's lying, Dolly. I never saw him before in my— JOE: Ask Ruby. She knows I begged her to bring me. (to TILLIEJ Pimp, am I? (ROWENA

turns tearfully in the door)

MRS. PACE: (rushes

are coming!

in from the arch door) The police

(JOE makes a dash to exit He stumbles, but dashes out wildly) BEULAH: Me and cops don't mix! (makes a dash for the door, knocking TILLIE off balance, TILLIE tumbles into DOLLY, who lands on the sofa. All the guests converge around the sofa) SOPHIE: (dashing in with a trail of policy slips following) The cops coming. Git them policy slips out! MRS. PACE: Dolly, what are you doing ? DOLLY: (holding fast to sprawling TILLIE, she takes off her shoe) I'm going to put some misery where it belongs. TILLIE: Don't you put your hands on me! HENNTPEST: (dashing in with his camera, focusing from a downstage vantage point) Focus, please.

(All freeze just as DOLLY raises her slipper posterior)

TILLIE 's

above

(Curtain)

Scene 2 Time: Later that evening Place: Same. At the rise of the curtain, ROWENA paces the floor, ex-

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426

ABRAM HILL

cited over the recent happenings, ED is sitting in the chair at left nursing his right eye. ought to be ashamed of yourself! ED: I, ashamed? What about your aunt and her rummies spoiling the party? J u s t like her, always messing up— (gestures, exposing a black eye, a real mouser) ROWENA: Get my wrap. I'm going home. ED: Don't shout at me! I only dance to my own music. I'm sick and tired of both of you trying to make small of other people and end up stuck with the dummy cap yourselves. ROWENA: Stop talking about her! ED: (rising) Stop the world! Her majesty, partynuisance number one. Same thing at Small's last night, got high and pushed me off a stool, splashing rum all over— ROWENA: Aunt Tillie was in Corona last night. ED: Maybe her spirit was, but her body was with me at Small's Paradise and as high as a kite. ROWENA: YOU took her there? ED: (crossing to right) Let us say she took me there. ROWENA: (crossing to EDJ You're a conceited liar! ED: And for a grand finale, we shacked up at the Hotel Theresa. ROWENA: What are you saying? (her eyes glued on him) DOLLY: (enters via foyer in a huff) You, assassins, still here? Get going! ROWENA: (to ED, undistracted) You are lying! DOLLY: (missing the point) Lying? You're as welcome here as a bastard at a family reunion, (crosses, snatches wrap from sofa, flings it at her) MRS. PACE: (enters from left, steaming) Where is Tillie? Where is that horrible creature? DOLLY: Denture hunting. She lost her partials during the melee. ROWENA: YOU

ON STRIVERS ROW

s. PACE: I have been on the phone and— ROWENA: (finally with realization to EDJ YOU—you— drip! You dripping drip, (crosses, slaps him and picks up her wrap and flees thru foyer and off right ED instinctively pursues her, but pauses and calmly picks up his hat, faces MRS. PACE and DOLLYj ED: (scornfully, conclusively) So long, social coolies! DOLLY: (crossing to him, gracefully, bowing regally and joined by MRS. PACEJ Adios ameba! (both arm and oust him before he knows what is happening. After a pause, DOLLY collapses on the sofa) Oh, Mother, I feel like the last drip from a faucet! MRS. PACE: (crossing behind sofa) I found out that— RUBY: (enters from left with LOUISE, both in their wraps) Mrs. Van Striven, I can't tell you how sorry I is. MRS. PACE: My daughter wants to be alone. RUBY: Yessum, I was just leaving and— ^ MRS. PACE: Leave by the lower floor then. (RUBY exits left via foyer after a sad glance at DOLLYJ LOUISE: Dolly, I had a perfectly delightful time. MRS. PACE: This is one time that lie is not in order! LOUISE: I did. Didn't we, Leon? (looking back) Where is that man? Leon? LEON: (entering from left) Coming, honey. LOUISE: You're not going to take her home with you, are you? LEON: (now pretty high, he makes a production out of getting on his scarf and coat) Who—who—who? LOUISE: Look at him—who—who? Wait until I get you home. LEON: I have to speak before the Medical Association tomorrow, (his scarf now is like a lasso around his neck) You're not going to scratch up my face tonight. LOUISE: (Jerking LEON'S scarf) It won't be your face! MRS. PACE: Louise!!! LOUISE: I'm sorry, Mrs. Pace, (sits next to DOLLYJ

427

428

ABRAM HILL PACE: We saw you come up from that 134th Street railroad flat up on Sugar Hill. Dolly sponsored you in and made you what you are today. LOUISE: She did, and I would cut off my right arm for her. MRS. PACE: (LEON still entangling the scarf) You had better save your arm for him. (referring to LEONJ Tillie told you not to come to our party, didn't she? LOUISE: Yes, Mrs. Pace— DOLLY: What's this? LEON: (crossing to DOLLY, his hand tracing her spine) I told Louise that she should have phoned you—hie— hie—(DOLLY disassociates his hand) LOUISE: I didn't mean to hide it. You and Tillie both have been nice to me. DOLLY: I am convinced that you wouldn't want to hurt me. LOUISE: Never! Never! Never! It's that man's womanizing escapades. He keeps my mind boggled up! If it just weren't for this man, I would be a full-time lady instead of a part-time hag! MRS. PACE: Leon! (he crosses to her, pinching her cheek affectionately. She distances herself) When are you going to stop playing cupid to every young creature you see? LEON: (staggers) I guess it's the African in me, a woman for every mood. LOUISE: Get going! I'm going to start demooding you tonight, (pushing him out) LEON: NOW, honey, It's you I love. I don't mismeasure your treasure. What are you going to do to your papawappa? LOUISE: I'm putting you on a diet. LEON: (at the foyer exit) Oh, I don't mind my weight going down. LOUISE: It won't be your weight. The diet is saltpeter! (LEON swoons as LOUISE waves goodbye and shoves him off right following him)

ON STRIVERS ROW CHUCK: (entering from left) Mrs. Van Striven, I apologize for striking that— MRS. PACE: Get your pay and leave by the lower floor. CHUCK: There is something else— mis. PACE: Please take it up with Mr. Van Striven! (CHUCK

moves down right)

LILT: (enters from left foyer, posing dramatically with her wrap draped over her left shoulder, acting out a scene with HENNYPEST, who follows her. She projects a Jamaican accent) Ha-ha-ha, then I say, "The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven." HENNYPEST: (throwing kisses) Bravo—bravo. Yum— um. LILY: "It is an attribute to God Himself; and earthly power doth show likest God's, when mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew— HENNYPEST: That's I. MRS. PACE: Stop it! The masquerade is over! LILY: (descending into room) I simply had to do that scene. I'm rehearsing "The Merchant of Venice"—to be laid in Jamaica, (MRS. PACE gawks) I mean the setting of the play is laid in Jamaica. Instead of Portia, I'm called Portiaette. 9. PACE: YOU have 'et too much already. You are drunk! DOLLY: Good night, Lily. HENNYPEST: (glowing) I'm escorting her home. DOLLY: Don't lose your way back, Professor.

(Backing out, HENNYPEST collides with LILY, posturing another flight) LILY: Goodnight reminds me of last season's African version of "Romeo and Juliet." (crossing down center) "Good night, Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Good night 'til it be morrow." (flings her wrap over her right shoulder, whirls and exits via foyer to

429

i

430

ABRAMHILL

the right Two beats behind her, HENNYPEST waves a cuppishjarewell and pursues LILYJ CHUCK: (impatiently) Mrs. Van Striven, I must talk to you. MRS. PACE: (quickly) You still here! (crossing to left entrance) Oscar! Oscar! Come and show this person out! OSCAR: (enters from parlor with RUBYJ One minute. I must pay the orchestra. mis. PACE: This boy is annoying Dolly. CHUCK: Honest, sir, it's about— MRS. PACE: Pay him and get rid of him! OSCAR: (exploding) This is a union band. Every minute counts. Come, young man, I will give you your money. Wait here, Miss Jackson. No doubt, tomorrow I shall be applying for welfare. (CHUCK follows RUBY:

(sits)

OSCAR off left)

(crossing to chair left) 111 just sit right here.

MRS. PACE: (after a long pause that discomforts RUBY, she stiffens) For the past half-hour, I have been trying to converse with my daughter. RUBY: Please don't let me stop you. MRS. PACE: I am not encouraging conversation with you, but you do figure prominently in what concerns me. DOLLY: (coldly, turning away) Her presence is part of a total design to embarrass me. MRS. PACE: Why did you bring this rowdy Mr. Smothers into this house? RUBY: Because he asked me to. MRS. PACE: What if you had refused his request? RUBY: He'd probably come on, on his own. Men like Joe is heaps of fun and heaps of risk. You don't refuse them anything. MRS. PACE: HOW did he come to know Petunia so well?

ON STRIVERS ROW RUBY: He hangs out at the Blue Ball Poolroom. Her paper business is just next door. I didn't know she told him to funk up your party. 'Course, I don't know the tricks of you high-toned folks. Bringing him here was surely a miscarriage. MRS. PACE: YOU have met our upper class. I hope you are satisfied. RUBY: I am, but— MRS. PACE: But what? RUBY: I'm going to buy that big mansion on Long Island. 'Course you all will be my house guests and— (DOLLY crosses

stage)

MRS. PACE: (tensely) DOLLY: (exploding

Don't lose your dignity, Dolly! with laughter above couch) Ha-

ha-ha-ha— (RUBY

rises, goes toward hall)

It's just that I want to be in society. DOLLY: The word swims before my eyes. MRS. PACE: Keep your dignity— DOLLY: Come here, Miss Jackson, (RUBY picks up stool at right and down center, sits hopefully center) What a blind and silly woman you are. RUBY: (disappointedly) My Madame, the one I use to work for, says I have the makings of a lady. RUBY:

(MRS. PACE site

on sofa)

DOLLY: (severely) A lady! Such a superficial term. Is your life position one of distinct advantage? Do you dress correctly? That rooster feather in your hair, positively nauseating. This being a lady is a complicated thing! It requires development, step by step. You are not even in the kindergarten. What do you possess that might make you worthy? RUBY: Goodness. DOLLY: (she almost whispers) And what do you think I possess? RUBY: (firm but kind) Snobbishness! Vanity! Pride!

431

432

ABRAM HILL MRS. PACE: And

I?

RUBT: Meanness! Stiffness! It all amounts to just being snobbish. MRS. PACE: (with modest condescension) She's a snob. I am a snob. Well, who isn't? Snobbery is a universal failing—or maybe it's a virtue. It is the art of rubbing it in the other person. And it isn't peculiar to our smart set either. RUBT: I wouldn't be one for— MRS. PACE: But you are. You are a snob of humility and modesty. Now, are you not sorry for what you have said? RUBT: No'm. DOLLY: If you think so lightly of us, why have you selected us? RUBT: I know every rich cultured woman ain't a lady. Still, every ten-dollar scrub woman ain't a saint. God is funny. He mixed them up. When you work all your days, suddenly you git powerfully rich, ain't much else to do but show off and git talked about. DOLLY: (as an equal) Money can buy you all the publicity you need, but not breeding. Now, Grandfather was an original settler in Rockland County and an Episcopalian minister. Dad became president of Skidwell College— MRS. PACE: Where I was dean of women until I retired and moved to Washington. DOLLY: Oscar's background is equally outstanding. MRS. PACE: Though a far lesser eclipse of AngloSaxon sunshine with the African moon. We overlook one Dutch ancestor who went to the debtor's jail— DOLLY: But a good name, Van Striven! Does that mean anything to you? RUBT: Yessum. DOLLY: Indeed, what? RUBT: That the line between you and me is very thin. DOLLY: (indignantly) I am trying to rationalize this thing with you. If you are capable of speaking with sense.

ON STRIVERS ROW

s. PACE: What was your father? RUBY: A dog ketcher. DOLLY: YOU couldn't be satirizing? RUBY: Who? DOLLY: Skip it. What did your grandfather do? RUBY: He ran aroun' lak a blind mule in a hailstorm because Culnal Cheatum tricked him outah his farm. Five little devils use to break loose in his brain, he said, so he'd go aroun' buttin' his head against pine trees. I was a little mite of a gal when he used to say, "Dad-bobbit, naow I'se too pooh to gie you the upbringing you deserve." DOLLY: Then you admit you lack breeding? RUBY: Maybe I does, but the hoss that won me this money shore had plenty. DOLLY: What I can't understand is why are you struggling to get into my social set and away from your own, such as Joe or Beulah. RUBY: I like you better. DOLLY: IS there any difference between you and Beulah? RUBY: Yessum, in a way. DOLLY: Then everybody isn't the same breed? RUBY: Well, er— DOLLY: Are they, Miss Jackson? (RUBY is confused) Are they, Miss Jackson? RUBY: I mean—the difference between me and Beulah is just like the difference between you and Miss Petunia. MRS. PACE: A matter of attitude? RUBY: Yessum, that's it, that's just what I mean—a attitude is what I got that they don't have and don't want. DOLLY: (resigning) I see. Is that all you have to offer for your social ambitions? RUBY: Skersely much more, Mrs. Van Striven. DOLLY: (conclusively, rising) I am afraid the price you are willing to pay will not purchase you a ticket into the inner circle, (strolls left looking off)

433

434

ABRAM HILL RUBY:

(meditatively)

I—get—you. My mistake.

(MRS. PACE rises. Exiting right RUBY, thoroughly dejected, comes to put chair back to table—pauses. DOLLY crosses as MRS. PACE stands rigidly, RUBY comes down center) RUBY: I have stood over a hot greasy stove, rolling out biscuits, peeling onions 'til my eyes turned red. I never want to see another roasting pot! Have you ever had hot grease pop on you on a sizzling morning in August? And home to sit out on a stinking stoop— with a pile of cussing sickly men, lousing around like lizards in a pile of rotten logs! Aw, what's the use— (exits to parlor) DOLLY: That's over—thank heaven, (sits on sofa) MRS. PACE: May it never be repeated, (hears voices in the hall) COBINA: (offstage) And I think I ought to know! OSCAR: (offstage) Go on inside! MRS. PACE: (as COBINA enters from foyer left followed by CHUCK and OSCAR,} YOU want Dolly to explode? Speak up! COBINA: NO, I'm not ashamed! And I don't care! OSCAR: I just learned why Cobina can't stay at college over the weekends, (he comes down center, CHUCK stands nearby) MRS. PACE: Running down here for those stupid swing sessions. Swing! That horrible noise called music. OSCAR: NO! (indicates CHUCK) He's the reason. DOLLY: (with a toss of her head) Him? That person. That boy! This—Cobina— MRS. PACE: W-w-w-what? DOLLY: (going over to her) What's been going on? What do you mean? Cobina, where do you know this person from? COBINA: The Village. MRS. PACE: (cocking her brows) Dolly, you permit Co-

ON STRIVERS ROW

bina to be seen with such people! How long have you known this this—nobody? (OSCAR sits

on sofa rubbing his

hands)

About a year. DOLLY: (to COBINAJ Where have you been seeing him? OSCAR: She said they have been going to the park. DOLLY: (wincing) My daughter in a public park. Cobina, I don't understand! Jeepers creepers! Did he make love to you? COBINA: AW, Mother! MRS. PACE: Hold yourself together, Dolly! Keep your dignity! (steps on DOLLY'S foot) DOLLY: Ouch! Get off my foot! (flops on sofa) What have I done to deserve this? Och, it's too much, much too much. My poor aching feet. mis. PACE: (to CHUCK,) Do you realize what an uncouth thing you've done? CHUCK: I tried to tell all of you. I didn't mean to be sly or— OSCAR: (interrupting) They have been out evenings together. MRS. PACE: (incensed) Evening, a sheltering veil for promiscuity. Black evil night! And why have you seen her at night? CHUCK: I worked during the day. MRS. PACE: Then I suppose you have something in your pocket besides a pair of dice. OSCAR: He is not working now. He was discharged. MRS. PACE: If you think Cobina is endowed to support you— CHUCK: I love Cobina. I love her with all my soul. DOLLY: But what could you offer her? CHUCK: My youth—my— MRS. PACE: What can she do with that? OSCAR: I have explained to Chuck. Such a thing is utterly impossible, completely out of the question— (rises, crosses to CHUCK,) COBINA:

435

436

ABRAM HILL COBINA:

the nose.

(defiantly)

I'm sick of being led around by

OSCAR: Cobina, I seldom interfere in your affairs. I allow you to your own judgment. You are eighteen. This is a big thing. Too big for you to decide alone. MRS. PACE: This is most unhealthy or—something. COBINA: I don't care. I love him. DOLLY: What do you see in this boy? COBINA: See—see—probably no more than you, but I feel different. MRS. PACE: Keep your remarks out of the gutter. COBINA: What difference does it make? Mother ran away to marry Dad and— MRS. PACE: And she has been regretting it ever since. COBINA: Nobody is going to pick out my boyfriend. I'm sick of these jaded jerks. With their swell heads, they're on the painful side of the absurd. They love only themselves. OSCAR: We know what's good for you. COBINA: I don't want what's good! DOLLY: (going over to CHUCKJ YOU have been listening to Sophie. And you, young man—you know what you've done? You have pulled a sneaking, unmanly trick! The idea of seeing my daughter in the park—in the Village—with those kooks. CHUCK: We went other places—shows, bus riding, fights— MRS. PACE: Fights? CHUCK: Yessum, prize fights at Madison Square Garden. COBINA: Chuck can fight, too. OSCAR: (gladly—drawn to CHUCKJ Oh, he can? DOLLY: (interrupting) A prize fighter! What is your name? CHUCK: Chuck Reynolds. DOLLY: Mrs. Chuck Reynolds! How lacking in lyricism!

ON STRIVERS ROW

I've always wanted to manage a boxer— CHUCK: Boxing ain't my calling. DOLLY: Why did you decide to come here? CHUCK: I didn't want you all to engage Cobina to anyone else. DOLLY: And if we had? CHUCK: I am not ready to marry, but we would have eloped. OSCAR: (crossing to CHUCKJ And I would have had it annulled. CHUCK: We would have kept it a secret. MRS. PACE: Her mother hid her elopement. But she did not hide the results. DOLLY: Mother! (truly embarrassed) OSCAR: AS you see, Chuck, your way of life is different. Though you say you have been to college. MRS. PACE: (to OSCARJ College, where? OSCAR: (explodes) Aw, Bugalu College or something— MRS. PACE: YOU mean institution! OSCAR: There are plenty of Harlem businessmen who would have gladly given you a job. CHUCK: They must be hiding somewhere. OSCAR: Jobs just don't fall out of the tree of hope. CHUCK: I came here with a letter of introduction from college to the Reverend Cooke. He was glad to see me. He invited me to hear him preach the following Sunday. OSCAR: The Reverend Cooke gave you no assistance? CHUCK: He was kind. He gave me a copy of the New Testament. Next I went to Gotsby Employment Agency. OSCAR: I know, recently opened. CHUCK: I told Mr. Gotsby I needed a job. He said he couldn't find one himself. That's why he opened his agency. OSCAR: There is a wide gap between you and my daughter. What I mean is, there is a lot of difference between you and me, and— OSCAR:

437

438

ABRAM HILL

We do belong to the same sex. one for Chuck. Hooray! OSCAR: Putting it as politely as I can, permission to see my daughter is denied. CHUCK: I didn't ask your permission, sir. OSCAR: YOU didn't, but— DOLLY: Did you come here to win our friendship or extract it? CHUCK: I have Cobina's consent. She's eighteen now. COBINA: Both of you may have been kidding me when you told me that a girl at eighteen can make her own decisions, but I believed you. So please shut up! OSCAR: (crossing to COBINAJ What will it be? Shell steaks or chopped chuck? COBINA: Chopped chuck with CHUCK! DOLLY: Name the first offspring Groundmeat! RUBY: (stepping up to CHUCKJ Sonny, I sure like the way you talk. OSCAR: Oh, Miss Jackson, 111 be with you in a minute. RUBY: What would you do if you had my money? CHUCK: Madame, education isn't a bad investment. A sharp mind deters chiselers and— OSCAR: (blustering) Now just a minute— MRS. PACE: Keep your dignity. OSCAR: (evenly) A few minutes ago, before my daughter's declaration of chop meat independence, I was about to offer you a job— CHUCK: AS a panic peddler? OSCAR: Come again. CHUCK: Panic peddlers, blockbusting goons—hired by real estate dealers to funk up neighborhoods. (DOLLY looks askance at MRS. PACE and mimes "Language?" MRS. PACE mimes "Funk is proper") CHUCK:

COBINA: Score

CHUCK: Johnny Whiteface flees the neighborhood, taking everything except his cemetery.

ON STRIVERS ROW

(not with pride) Business is business. CHUCK: That's what's wrong with it. OSCAR: NO, you certainly won't fit into my stable. CHUCK: Thank you for including me out. OSCAR: There are times when the end justifies the means. If the end is a good one, you bend the moral code a little— CHUCK: Or bust it. OSCAR: Show me a business strictly on the up and up, and I'll show you where it is coasting on eggs. Such is the fashion and pattern of our time. Anybody in this business who doesn't earn fifty thousand a year is loafing. Sure, I trigger the whole busting sequence. Blockbusting is an odious name for my craft. Real estate speculator, yes. But as long as we have the average American with his average prejudice, we blockbusting bastards will be in business. And nothing you can say will release any ants in my conscience! DOLLY: (she's had it) Enough! Absolutely enough! This talk of business—flavored with nasty words— does not belong in our home! CHUCK: I think— DOLLY: Enough, damnit, enough, (tearfully regretting) COBINA: Chuck isn't as impractical as you think. He has already taken the civil service exam for recreation director. DOLLY: (with new interest) Did he pass? CHUCK: I made the second highest mark. OSCAR:

(The VAN STRIVENS, glaciers melt All are drawn to CHUCK,)

OSCAR: (putting his arm around CHUCK,/ Well, tell me something. You will be appointed? CHUCK: I guess I will unless something better turns up. MRS. PACE: Civil service is civil service. CHUCK: It can be a dead end.

439

440

ABRAM HILL DOLLY: Mother,

what about his background? Some people have backgrounds. Others have backbone. OSCAR: (to MRS. PACE) DO you mean you accept him? mis. PACE: When I objected to you twenty years ago, I did so in vain. COBINA: Thank you, Granny, (kisses her) BIRS. PACE:

(Commotion off upper left stage: dog barking, tumbling footsteps on the stairs, and TILLIE 'sfrantic voice) TILLIE: Let go! Let go! Do you hear me? (dog growls, cries and whines, TILLIE, in her wrap, enters from left foyer all shaky and disheveled) That damn dog of yours had my bridge work down there in his kennel. COBINA: (alarmed, dashes out, followed by CHUCK, OSCAR, MRS. PACE, and RUBY) Oh, is he hurt? TILLIE: He wouldn't let go until I stuck him with a hair pin. DOLLYS Now, will you get the hell out of here? TILLIE: I can't get out of here fast enough. Where's my niece. Where's Ed? DOLLY: They left long ago. TILLIE: (recapturing her composure) How dare they leave me. DOLLY: When ordered out, they obeyed! TILLIE: You'll have to explain to my lawyer how that mutt got my partial! DOLLY: Get out! Let the doorknob bang your backside! (steps toward her) TILLIE: Don't you touch me again! MRS. PACE: (entersfrom left, stops center) Touch you! Why, you deceiving, calculating wench! I knew when you came flying by here this morning that you were up to nothing good. You should have been spanked in Macy's window! DOLLY: She has been ding-donging with Ed Tucker. MRS. PACE: (with asperity) That's it! That's why this old bag was sinking us and at the same time securing

ON STRIVERS ROW

Ed Tucker tightly to her monstrous bosom! Thanks gossip-monger for telling our guests not to come. DOLLY: What's this? MRS. PACE: I have been trying to tell you for the last half-hour that I phoned our guests. Some tried to lie out of it. Others admitted that Petunia warned them that the party was going to be a disaster. That this scrub-woman Jackson was coming and others who are more at home in jail. TILLIE: What if I did! Who do you think you are? Van Strivens—VAN SKUNKS! YOU dare lay your filthy hands on me. I'm not afraid of you. Ill show you. I'm going to sue you. I will make you the biggest goats of the season. I shall smear your names in the biggest and boldest letters on the front page of the Black Dispatch. You little upstarts. You scheming, broke climbers. As long as you give parties, I don't need any comic section in my newspaper! DOLLY: SO you will, eh? TILLIE: B-e-1-i-e-v-e me! DOLLY: (fiercely) You back-biting, two-faced hussy! MRS. PACE: Don't spare the rod, but keep your dignity. DOLLY: Nothing that you can print can scandalize me more than I can discredit you! The mud you fling on me will splatter back into the map you call a face! TILLIE; (most gratified) Seeing you socially dead is worth any price. I'm glad I fouled up your party. DOLLY: Rejoice, evil child! But exactly what poison did you sprinkle among my friends? TILLIE: I told them that the creeps and floozies crashing the party were bound to cause a riot. MRS. PACE: That would deter God Himself, (sits chair down left) TILLIE: They realized something that you don't. DOLLY: And that is? TILLIE: That without the press, all of you are papier mache.

441

i

442

ABRAM HILL DOLLT: The press be damned. / know who I am. I've been middle-class for three generations. TILLIE: You're still just another face in the Harlem coalbin. PACE: Rumors persist that your grandmother was a slut! TILLIE: That's a lie! MRS. PACE: And that your membership in every committee for fallen girls is an act of repentance. TILLIE: Grandma was the owner of best whorehouse in downtown Brooklyn, regardless of race, creed, or need. Slut herself, she was not. MRS. PACE: Your credentials for the underclass are excellent. You are vulgar and gauche. Your disgraceful ancestors and unrefined instincts add up to zero. Why my daughter tolerates you is— TILLIE: (angrily) Tolerate me! People fear me. Had your guests come here tonight, my press would have blackballed their names. Their fear of me outweighed their loyalty to you. With that kind of clout, I need no ancestor. I am my own ancestor. DOLLT: Fear is a weapon that can work for you or against you. (takes photo film from desk drawer, crosses, showing it to TILLIEJ Won't your butt look swell on the front pages of the Amsterdam News? TILLIE: (stunned, grabs at it MRS. PACE grabs it first and clears) You're . . . you're lying— DOLLT: After it's developed, I'm giving it to the Amsterdam News. Hennypest snapped it just as I was spanking you. Oh, what a front-page feature that will make! TILLIE: (painfully) They would print it—with monstrous glee. DOLLT: NO doubt at all. And with a little retouch that would expose your nude bottom. Remember, Mother, the picture of the Baptist minister with his leading soprano, both nude? MRS. PACE: (claps her hands, unnerving TILLIEJ Halleluiah! Halleluiah!

ON STRIVERS ROW TILLIE: That picture will scandalize us both. Please give me that film. DOLLT: I will give you nothing. TILLIE: HOW much do you want for it? DOLLT: It is not for sale. TILLIE: You'll ruin my reputation. You'll ruin our reputation. DOLLT: It's too late for salvation. TILLIE: I promise not to print anything about you and what has happened. DOLLT: And what about that disaster zone you call a mouth? TILLIE: In my mouth your name will no longer find comfort. DOLLT: Bless you. Now, get out! MRS. PACE: She said get out! (TILLIE

crosses to arch)

DOLLT: J u s t it to TILLIE)

a minute, (tears up negative and gives

TILLIE: YOU did this because you think you are the better person. DOLLT: (firmly) Good night, Tillie. TILLIE: At best, we were stepfriends. I'm going to miss that. DOLLT: NOW we're close enemies. TILLIE: Sometimes your worst enemy is your best friend.

(She has gone, DOLLY sits on sofa. MRS. PACE crosses behind sofa and presses DOLLY'S shoulders reassuringly) (soul searching) I should have destroyed her. ants, PACE: YOU stayed within the bounds of decency. DOLLT: She will destroy herself. RUBY: (entering with OSCARJ SO, you just expect me in your office at nine tomorrow morning. BIRS. PACE: YOU mean you will buy anyway? RUBY: Why, surely, I ain't changed my mind. DOLLT:

443

444

ABRAM HILL

Why, Miss Jackson! mind, honey. Forget the sendoff. I need a good place to live. The razzle dazzle can come later. MRS. PACE: (coaxing) Having such a nice home, you will want to have nice friends. DOLLY: (crossing to MRS. PACEJ Mother, are we to accept her? MRS. PACE: (whispering to DOLLYJ HOW much did you say that sweepstake was? DOLLY: TWO hundred and fifty thousand dollars. MRS. PACE: Well then— DOLLY: Of course. RUBY: Don't you bother, child. You all seem to do t>out the same thing I do. MRS. PACE: NOW, Miss Jackson, it ain't what you do. It's the way how you do it. (braces herself) RUBY: Well, all right then. DOLLY: Miss Jackson, please forgive me. If I have made you unhappy, then let me show you how happy I can make you. You must, for there is something that you can teach me. RUBY: But what can I teach you 'doubt it's how to pick a lucky horse? DOLLY: YOU can teach me to have a heart as big as yours. I am beginning to think my way of doing things is somewhat phony. RUBY: Why, Mrs. Van Striven. DOLLY: Will you? RUBY: Sakes alive . . . I sure will. DOLLY: (crossing embracing her) Thank you, my dear. Why don't you stay overnight? OSCAR: Yes, do. I might change my mind about putting a turnstile to that third floor. Unhem—we can get right down to business the first thing in the morning. RUBY: That's right nice of you all. DOLLY: Mother, show Miss Jackson to the Booker T. Washington bedroom. DOLLY: (stunned) RUBY: Never you

ON STR1VERS ROW

3. PACE: Come, Miss Jackson, (crosses to arch and waits) RUBY: Ain't she sweet, (struts toward archway, totally lacking in grace) MRS. PACE: (stopping her) Miss Jackson, please. The first lesson in social deportment is not to walk like a duck. Walk this way. (braces and strolls through archway, pauses, looks back and exits) RUBY: She walks like she's leading me to Jesus at the second coming, (assuming an exact carbon copy of MRS. PACE she exits after pausing and winking) (DOLLY quickly closes the window, takes ROOM FOR RENT sign and tucks it neatly in the window as OSCAR embraces her agreeably.) (Curtain)

445

General Bibliography Biography and Reference Arata, Esther Spring. More Black Playwrights: A Bibliography. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1978. Arata, Esther Spring, and Nicholas John Rotoli. Black American Playwrights, 1800 to the Present Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1976. Coven, Brenda. American Women Dramatists of the Twentieth Century: A Bibliography. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1982. Dace, Letitia. LeRoi Jones (Imamu Amiri Baraka): A Checklist of Works By and About Him. London: Nether Press, 1971. Davis, Thadious M., and Trudier Harris, eds. AfroAmerican Writers after 1955: Dramatists and Prose Writers, Vol. 38, Dictionary of Literary Biography. Detroit: Gale Research, 1985. Durham, Weldon B. American Theatre Companies, 1888-1930. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1987. Fabre, Genevieve, Michel Fabre, William French, and Amritjit Singh. Afro-American Poetry and Drama, 1760-1975: A Reference Guide. Detroit: Gale Research, 1979. 447

448

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Gill, Glenda E. White Grease Paint on Black Performers: A Study of The Federal Theatre, 1935-1939. New York: Peter Lang, 1988. Hatch, James V. Black Image on the American Stage: A Bibliography of Plays and Musicals, 1770— 1970. New York: Drama Book Specialists, 1970. Hatch, James V., and Omanii Abdullah. Black Playwrights, 1823-1977: An Annotated Bibliography of Plays. New York: R. R. Bowker, 1977. Inge, M. Thomas, Maurice Duke, and Jackson Bryer, eds. Black American Writers: Bibliography Essays, 2 vols. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1978. Kaye, Phyllis Johnson. The National Playwrights Directory. New York: Drama Book Specialists, 1977. Kellner, Bruce, ed. The Harlem Renaissance: A Historical Dictionary for the Era. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1984. Klotman, Phyllis Rauch. Frame by Frame—A Black Filmography. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979. Mapp, Edward. Directory of Blacks in the Performing Arts. Metuchen, N. J.: Scarecrow Press, 1978. Miller, R. Baxter. Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks: A Reference Guide. Boston: G. K. Hall, 1978. Newman, Richard. Black Access: A Bibliography of Afro-American Bibliographies. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1984. Ortolani, Benito, ed. International Bibliography of Theatre: 1982, 1983, 1984 New York: Theatre Research Data Center, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986. Peterson, Bernard L., Jr., ed. Contemporary Black American Playwrights and Their Plays. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1988.

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Reardon, William, and Thomas Pawley. The Black Teacher and the Dramatic Arts: A Dialogue, Bibliography and Anthology. Westport, Conn.: Negro University Press, 1970. Rush, Theressa G., Carol F. Myers, and Esther S. Arata. Black American Writers, Past and Present: A Biographical and Bibliographical Dictionary, 2 vols. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1975. Sampson, Henry T. Blacks in Blackface: A Source Book on Early Black Musical Shows. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow, Press, 1980. Sampson, Henry T. The Ghost Walks: A Chronological History of Blacks in Show Business, 1865-1910. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1988. Schatz, Walter. Directory of Afro-American Resources. New York: R. R. Bowker, 1970. Shockley, Ann, and Sue P. Chandler. Living Black American Authors: A Biographical Directory. New York: R. R. Bowker, 1973. Southern, Eileen. Biographical Dictionary of AfroAmerican and African Musicians. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1983. [Contains many valuable sketches of theater performers.] Spradling, Mary Mace. In Black and White, 3rd. ed., 2 vols. Detroit: Gale Research, 1980. Standley, Fred L., and Nancy V. Standley. James Baldwin: A Reference Guide. Boston: G. K. Hall, 1980. Szwed, John, and Roger D. Abrahams. Afro-American Folk Culture: An Annotated Bibliography of Materials from North, Central, and South America and the West Indies, 2 vols. Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1978. Walters, Harold A. Black Theatre in French: A Guide. Sherbrooke, Quebec, Canada: Editions Naaman, 1978.

449

45O

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Woll, Allen. Dictionary of the Black Theatre. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1983. History and Criticism Archer, Leonard C. Black Images in the American Theater. Brooklyn: Pageant, 1973. Barthelemy, Anthony Gerard. Black Face Maligned Race. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1987. Benston, Kimberly W. Baraka: The Renegade and the Mask. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. Bogle, Donald. Brown Sugar: Eighty Years of America's Black Female Superstars. New York: Harmony Books, 1980. Bontemps, Arna, ed. The Harlem Renaissance Remembered. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1972. Brown-Guillory, Elizabeth. Their Place on the Stage: Black Women Playwrights in America. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1988. Craig, E. Quita. Black Drama of the Federal Theatre Era. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1980. Dirks, Robert. The Black Saturnalia. University of Florida Press, 1987.

Gainesville:

Emery, Lynne Pauley. Black Dance in the United States from 1619 to 1970. Palo Alto, Calif.: Mayfield, 1972. Fabre, Genevieve. Drumbeats, Masks, and Metaphor. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983. . he Theatre Noir Aux Etats-Unis. Paris: Editions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1982. Gayle, Addison, Jr., ed. The Black Aesthetic. City, N.Y: Doubleday, 19.71.

Garden

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Harrison, Paul Carter. The Drama of Nommo. New York: Grove, 1972. Haskins, Jim. Black Theater in America. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1982. . The Cotton Club. New York: Random House, 1977. Hill, Errol, ed. The Theater of Black Americans, 2 vols. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1980. Hudson, Theodore R. From LeRoi Jones to Amiri Baraka: The Literary Works. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1973. Huggins, Nathan Irvin. Harlem Renaissance. York: Oxford University Press, 1971.

New

Kellner, Bruce, ed. "Keep A-lnchin' Along": Selected Writings of Carl Van Vechten about Black Art and Letters. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1979. Keyssar, Helene. The Curtain and the Veil. New York: Burt Franklin, 1981. King, Woodie, Jr. Black Theatre Present Condition. New York: Publishing Center for Cultural Resources, 1981. Leonard, William Torbert. Masquerade in Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1986.

Black.

Lewis, David Levering. When Harlem Was In Vogue. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981. Matlaw, Myron, ed. American Popular Entertainment. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1979. Mitchell, Loften. Voices of the Black Theatre. Clifton, N.J.: James T. White, 1976. Molette, Carlton W., and Barbara Molette. Black Theatre, Premise and Presentation. Bristol, Ind.: Wyndham Hall Press, 1986. O'Connor, John, and Lorraine Brown. Free, Adult, and Uncensored: The Living History of the Fed-

451

452

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

eral Theatre Project Washington, D.C.: New Republic Books, 1978. O'Daniel, Therman B., ed. Langston Hughes: Black Genius. New York: Morrow, 1971. Sanders, Leslie Catherine. The Development of Black Theater in America: From Shadows to Selves. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1988. Schiffman, Jack. Uptown: The Story of Harlem's Apollo Theatre. New York: Cowles, 1971. Slide, Anthony, ed. Selected Theatre Criticism, Volume 3. 1931-1950. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1986. Sollors, Werner. Amiri Baraka/LeRoi Jones: The Quest for a "Populist Modernism.9' New York: Columbia University Press, 1978. Toll, Robert. Blacking Up. New York: Oxford University Press, 1974. . On with the Show. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. Williams, Mance. Black Theatre in the 1960s and 1970s. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1985. Drama Anthologies Baraka, Amiri. The Motion of History and Other Plays. New York: Morrow, 1977. . Selected Plays and Prose of Amiri Baraka/LeRoi Jones. New York: Morrow, 1979. Brewster, Yvonne, ed. Black Plays. London: Methuen, 1987. Brown, Lennox. The Twilight Dinner and Other Plays. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 1981. Chervin, Stan, ed. Short Pieces from the New Dramatists. Middletown, N.Y.: Whitlock Press, 1985.

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Engle, Gary D., ed. This Grotesque Essence: Plays from the American Minstrel Stage. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978. Flynn, Joyce, and Joyce Occomy Stricklin, eds. Frye Street and Environs: The Collected Works ofMarita Bonner. Boston: Beacon Press, 1987. Harrison, Paul Carter, ed. Kuntu Drama. New York: Grove Press, 1974. , ed. Totem Voices. New York: Grove Press, 1989. Hatch, James V., and Ted Shine, eds. Black Theater USA: Forty-Jive Plays, 1847-1974. New York: Free Press, 1974. Kamerman, Sylvia E., ed. Plays of Black Boston: Plays, Inc., 1987.

Americans.

King, Woodie, Jr., ed. New Plays from The Black Theatre. Chicago: Third World Press, 1989. Nemiroff, Robert, ed. Les Blancs: The Last Collected Plays of Lorraine Hansberry. New York: Random House, 1972. Ostrow, Eileen Joyce, ed. Center Stage: An Anthology of 21 Contemporary Plays. Oakland, Calif.: Sea Urchin Press, 1981. Oyamo [Charles Gordon]. Hillbilly Liberation. York: Oyamo Ujamaa, 1976. Patterson, Lindsay, ed. Black Dodd, Mead, 1971.

New

Theater. New York:

Perkins, Kathy, ed. Black Female Playwrights: An Anthology of Plays Before 1950. Bloomington: Indiana University, 1989. Tillman, Katherine Davis. Beryl Weston9s Ambition. Philadelphia: n.p., 1888. Wilkerson, Margaret B., ed. Nine Plays by Black Women. New York: New American Library, 1986.

453

454

GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Some Important Periodical Issues Artist and Influence, an annual. Hatch-Billops Collection, 1981, 1982, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989. Black American Literature Forum 16, no. 4 (Winter 1982); and 17, nos. 1, 2 (Spring and Summer 1983). Black Art: An International Quarterly 1 (Fall 1976); 2 (Fall 1977). Black Masks 1 (September 1984)—6 (Jan.-Feb. 1990). Black Perspective in Music 1 (1973)-16 (1988). Black Scholar 10 (July-August 1979). Black Theatre [New Lafayette Theatre] 1 (1968)-6 (1972). "Black Theatre Bulletin." Theatre News. Almost annually, 1970-1981. Black World [formerly Negro Digest], Annual theater issues in April, 1967-1976. Drama Review 12 (Summer 1968), 16 (December 1972); 25 (Winter 1981). Federal One [George Mason University], November 1975-November 1987. Freedomways 19 (December 1979). Lorraine Hansberry number. Massachusetts Review 28, no. 4 (Winter 1987). Yale/Theatre 8 (Fall 1976) and Theater 14 (Winter 1982); 16 (Fall 1985); 17 (Summer 1986).

Leo Hamalian is a professor of English at The City College of New York. He received the B.S. degree from Cornell University and the M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from Columbia University. In addition to scholarly articles, Dr. Hamalian's publications include Burn After Reading, Lawrence in Italy, William Saroyan—The Man and the Writer Remembered, and Eleven Modern Short Novels (co-edited). He edits the literary quarterly, Ararat. James V. Hatch is also a professor of English at The City College of New York. He previously taught theater arts at the University of California at Los Angeles. He received the B.A. degree from the University of Northern Iowa and the M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from the University of Iowa. His published works include Black Theater USA (co-edited), Plays by and about Women (co-edited), and Black Playwrights—A Bibliography. The book was prepared for publication by Wendy Warren Keebler and was designed by Mary Primeau. The typeface for the text is Bookman. The display face is Windsor Elongated. Manufactured in the United States of America.

This volume rescues from obscurity thirteen plays by early African American writers. The book is a publication in the African American Life Series.

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