(Austin unloads the rifle. Sets it in a corner.)Austin: So what have you got there?
(Henry’s wrapped treasure. Everyone sits, somewhat uneasily. Henry hands over the object.)Austin: All right. What’s this now?
(He unwraps it. First the burlap. Then the towel. Sits back to take a look.)Austin: Huh.
You know, I hate to disappoint you young man, but I have never known, in a single instance, of a Negro of any moral tone who was fond of the banjar. You won’t find such things up here.
Henry: Oh.
(Henry is crushed. Cole laughs again.)Henry: Why?
Austin: Why?
Well that’s a rather complex question.
Henry: I’m all ears, Mister Steward. From what I’ve heard, it’s a beautiful instrument, and it’s the one true thing to come out of this meeting of peoples..
Austin: You call the institution of slavery a meeting of peoples?
Henry: Collision of peoples? Look I’m sorry sir. I come for knowledge, that’s all.
Austin: As far as I’m concerned, the only suitable music is that which has been made in praise of the Lord above.
Henry: That’s a hard position.
Austin: Which has arisen out of the necessity to instill temperance into all our fellows.
Cole: So you’re one of those temperence folks.
Austin: I am. In the old days, Mr. Cole, such parties that this little instrument would inspire in some woodland hovel proved a danger to my brethren as well as yours. The revellers would secure themselves against ambush by stringing a line across the path to their party. Any slave-owner who came looking – not to mention more than one curious innocent – found himself maimed or even decapitated by the act.
Cole: Serves ‘em right, I’d say, trying to run the lives of their fellow men, like they were cattle.
Austin: Well that’s a very sensitive remark there, Mr. Cole, but an eye for an eye does not for justice make.
Cole: I still say serves ‘em right.
Austin: Even the innocent who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Cole: I don’t imagine any innocent would come rushing fast enough to do themselves any harm.
Austin: Sometimes it would be the horses that were so maimed.
Cole: Oh, in that case. Well, that’s different.
Henry: And you want to blame all that hurt and pain on the little banjo there? You want to banish it utterly from the land because of some old southern party tricks?
(Austin sees the scope of Henry’s disappointment.)Austin: Well... of course, the climate’s got a little to do with it too. Let me take a look here.
(He picks it up.)You see?
It’s split.
Henry: What?
Austin: The skin. And the neck is cracked.
Henry: Really?
Austin: Weather up here isn’t conducive to the banjar. It’s an instrument born of the dry southern heat, the heat of the African continent and the State of Virginia.
Henry: So it’s split.
Austin: Yeah.
Henry: I never even got to learn how to play.
Austin: So tell me then: What are your names?
Henry: Our -?
Austin: What do you go by? In this act of yours?
Henry: Er.
(Henry and Cole exchange a look.)Austin: You do have an act, don’t you? Or do you blacken up your faces with burnt cork for some other reason?
Henry: I go by Liddle Brudder or Long Tail Blue.
(Austin looks to Cole.)Cole: Me? I’s John Crow.
Austin: John Crow?
Cole: Come listen all you galls and boys
I’s jist from Toronto,
I’m goin to sing a little song,
My name is John Crow.Austin: But that’s not so original, is it?
Cole: What you mean?
Austin: Is there not a famous cork dancer named Jim Crow making the rounds through the United States of America? ‘cept, if I’m not mistaken, he’s from Tuckyhoe, not Toronto.
Cole: W’ll he’s not up here, is he?
...
Anyway, I never heard of him.
...
What business is it of yours anyhow?
Austin: Oh, I sometimes used to go out for the entertainments, back in the State of New York... Civilization...
(He’s thinking about his wife. He goes into a bit of a reverie. Macey enters. Has a brief conversation with him, out of the past.)Macey: Austin. When are you going to take us to New York City for own of those high falutin shows?
Austin: They’re having a balloon launch in Rochester tomorrow afternoon Macey.
Macey: Now you know that’s not what I’m talking about–
Austin: And I hear they’re going to be unwrapping an Egyptian mummy right in front of the town hall on Saturday evening.
Macey: Austin. I want to dress up in my finest clothes, and I want to go into a theatre and sit down in a chair to watch a performance of a piece of music, or a comedy...
Austin: The circus?
Macey: No.
Austin: There’s a man named Barnum making the rounds with the oldest woman in the world. Claims to have been a nursemaid to George Washington himself.
Macey: A tent is not a theatre, Austin.
Austin: And then there’s that Jim Crow fellow. A play called Bone Squash or something of that nature.
Macey: Jim Crow? Well... I might be convinced.
(Henry is bringing Austin back to the present.)Henry: Mister Steward?
Austin: You were saying? My apologies. I drifted off for a moment.
(Macey disappears.)Henry: I was saying I thought it was – I mean I reckon you would have found those kinds of shows somewhat - er - offensive, or... uh, I thought you said the subject didn’t interest you.
Austin: Thomas Dartmouth Rice, who goes by the name Jim Crow, speaks in the public realm as if he believes he truly is a black man. And has stirred up all sort of trouble for himself as a result. He attracts as many coloured people to his city performances as white. I’ve heard tell he’s the most popular actor in America. It strains credibility to say you haven’t heard of him.
(Henry nudges Cole as if to say, ‘See?’ Austin notices.) Cole: I -
Austin: I do not fully approve of his brand of low comedy, but the man is forever in my debt for publicly ridiculing the argument that the play by Shakespeare called Othello the Moor is not a genuine tragedy depicting the fall of a great man, oh no, God forbid, but rather a cautionary tale of lust between races - the latter opinion popularized by no less a personage than former President John Quincy Adams.
Henry: I thought John Adams was against slavery.
Austin: He is against slavery. He is also, it seems, against the notion of the so-called uppity Negro.Mister Rice may show a lapse of taste when he blacks up his face, but his heart is the heart of an emancipator, no less than William Wilberforce himself. Of course, the same cannot be said for his many somewhat crass and bigoted imitators.
Cole: I ain’t no imitator. I am myself alone.
Austin: Well, let’s have a look then.
Cole: I beg your pardon?
Austin: I would like to see your rendition, your interpretation of the Negro.
Cole: No thanks.
Austin: I abash you then.
Cole: Pf. No.
Austin: But isn’t this what you want?
Cole: What’s that.
Austin: To top our famous Mister Dartmouth Rice? To embody the genuine black man in a kind of transubstantiation? To get the edge on that upstart New Yorker Jim Crow, even as you all strive to beautify yourselves with our feathers?
Henry: Er.
(It’s clear this is exactly what Henry wants. Cole laughs.)Cole: (re Henry) This one does. He does.
(Henry smacks him.)Hey - You do!
He came all the way here into this god-forsaken wilderness because he thought he might absorb a little of the true, unadulterated l’esprit de Negro. And he dragged me along with him.
Austin: That true?
Henry: Er.
Austin: Show me.
Henry: Er.
Austin: Sing for your supper, and I’ll see if I can’t give you some assistance in recreating through your art the legitimate, genuine Negro.
Henry: Are you proposing... ?
Austin: An evening’s idle entertainment. I’m expecting a call somewhat late. I have to find some means to abbreviate the hours.
Henry: Er.
Austin: Don’t worry. You needn’t bother with your cork. That’s your surface, that’s your gloss. Give me a little number.
Out March 20th, with a launch at the Gladstone Hotel. Here's an email from Erynn Marshall and Chris Coole:
Just was thinking of you...realized I have never responded to Wilberforce, and imagined the anxious ether that surrounds such auspicious hand offs. I adore it. I would love to hear it read and think we should push Eric for a reading next summer, (if you want to). I'm not sure how to specifically articulate it, but I love the style of it, the cadence, both in terms of language and scene structure, it flows with a particular lilt that I think has the potential to be deliciously potent. I don't know if you're looking for specific feedback, or if Eric already has you on a regime of dramaturgy, but I just wanted to throw that out there.
