# Strange Interlude/Act 3

Layout 2
ACT THREE
ACT THREE
Scene: Seven months or so later—the dining room of the Evans’ homestead in northern New York state—about nine o’clock in the morning of a day in late spring of the following year.
The room is one of those big, misproportioned dining rooms that are found in the large, jigsaw country houses scattered around the country as a result of the rural taste for grandeur in the eighties. There is a cumbersome hanging lamp suspended from chains over the exact center of the ugly table with its set of straight-backed chairs set back at spaced intervals against the walls. The wall paper, a repulsive brown, is stained at the ceiling line with damp blotches of mildew, and here and there has started to peel back where the strips join. The floor is carpeted in a smeary brown with a dark red design blurred into it. In the left wall is one window with starched white curtains looking out on a covered side porch, so that no sunlight ever gets to this room and the light from the window, although it is a beautiful warm day in the flower garden beyond the porch, is cheerless and sickly. There is a door in the rear, to left of center, that leads to a hall opening on the same porch. To the right of door a heavy sideboard, a part of the set, displaying some “company” china and glassware. In the right wall, a door leading to the kitchen.
​Nina is seated at the foot of the table, her back to the window, writing a letter. Her whole personality seems changed, her face has a contented expression, there is an inner calm about her. And her personal appearance has changed in kind, her face and figure have filled out, she is prettier in a conventional way and less striking and unusual; nothing remains of the strange fascination of her face except her unchangeably mysterious eyes.
Nina
[Reading what she has just written over to herself]
It’s a queer house, Ned. There is something wrong with its psyche, I’m sure. Therefore you’d simply adore it. It’s a hideous old place, a faded gingerbread with orange fixin’s and numerous lightning rods. Around it are acres and acres of apple trees in full bloom, all white and pinkish and beautiful, like brides just tripping out of church with the bridegroom, Spring, by the arm.
Which reminds me, Ned, that it’s over six months since Sam and I were married and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since the ceremony. Do you think that is any nice way to act? You might at least drop me a line. But I’m only joking. I know how busy you must be now that you’ve got the chance you’ve always wanted to do research work. Did you get our joint letter of congratulation written after we read of your appointment?
But to get back to this house. I feel it has lost its soul and grown resigned to doing without it. It isn’t haunted by anything at all—and ghosts of some sort are the only normal life a house has—like our minds, you know. So although last evening when we got here at first I said “obviously haunted” to myself, now that I’ve spent one night in it I know that whatever spooks there may once ​have been have packed up their manifestations a long time ago and drifted away over the grass, wisps of mist between the apple trees, without one backward glance of regret or recollection. It’s incredible to think Sam was born and spent his childhood here. I’m glad he doesn’t show it! We slept last night in the room he was born in. Or rather he slept, I couldn’t. I lay awake and found it difficult to breathe, as if all the life in the air had long since been exhausted in keeping the dying living a little longer. It was hard to believe anyone had ever been born alive there. I know you’re saying crossly “She’s still morbid” but I’m not. I’ve never been more normal. I feel contented and placid.
[Looking up from the letter, thinking embarrassedly]
Should I have told him? . . . no . . . my own secret . . . tell no one . . . not even Sam . . . why haven’t I told Sam? . . . it’d do him so much good . . . he’d feel so proud of himself, poor dear . . . no . . . I want to keep it just my baby . . . only mine . . . as long as I can . . . and it will be time enough to let Ned know when I go to New York . . . he can suggest a good obstetrician . . . how delighted he’ll be when he hears! . . . he always said it would be the best thing for me . . . well, I do feel happy when I think . . . and I love Sam now . . . in a way . . . it will be his baby too . . .
[Then with a happy sigh, turns back to letter]
But speaking of Sam’s birth, you really must meet his mother sometime. It’s amazing how little she is like him, a strange woman from the bit I saw of her last night. She has been writing Sam regularly once a week ever since she’s known we were married, the must urgent invitations to visit her. They were really more like commands, or prayers. I suspect she is terribly lonely all by herself in this big house. Sam’s feeling toward her puzzles me. ​I don’t believe he ever mentioned her until her letters began coming or that he’d ever have come to see the poor woman if I hadn’t insisted. His attitude rather shocked me. It was just as though he’d forgotten he had a mother. And yet as soon as he saw her he was sweet enough. She seemed dreadfully upset to see Charlie with us, until we’d explained it was thanks to his kindness and in his car we were taking this deferred honeymoon. Charlie’s like a fussy old woman about his car, he’s afraid to let Sam or me drive it—
Marsden
[Enters from the rear. He is spruce, dressed immaculately, his face a bit tired and resigned, but smiling kindly. He has a letter in his hand]
Good morning.
[She gives a start and instinctively covers the letter with her hand]
Nina
Good morning.
[Thinking amusedly]
If he knew what I’d just written . . . poor old Charlie! . . .
[Then indicating the letter he carries]
I see you’re an early correspondent, too.
Marsden
[With sudden jealous suspicion]
Why did she cover it up like that? . . . whom is she writing to? . . .
​[Coming toward her]
Just a line to Mother to let her know we’ve not all been murdered by rum-bandits. You know how she worries.
Nina
[Thinking with a trace of pitying contempt]
Apron strings . . . still his devotion to her is touching . . . I hope if mine is a boy he will love me as much . . . oh, I hope it is a boy . . . healthy and strong and beautiful . . . like Gordon! . . .
[Then suddenly sensing Marsden’s curiosity—perfunctorily]
I’m writing to Ned Darrell. I’ve owed him one for ages.
[She folds it up and puts it aside]
Marsden
[Thinking glumly]
I thought she’d forgotten him . . . still I suppose it’s just friendly . . . and it’s none of my business now she’s married. . . .
[Perfunctorily]
How did you sleep?
Nina
Not a wink. I had the strangest feeling.
Marsden
Sleeping in a strange bed, I suppose.
[Jokingly]
Did you see any ghosts?
Nina
[With a sad smile]
No, I got the feeling the ghosts had all deserted the house ​and left it without a soul—as the dead so often leave the living—
[She forces a little laugh]
if you get what I mean.
Marsden
[Thinking worriedly]
Slipping back into that morbid tone . . . first time in a long while . . .
[Teasingly]
Hello! Do I hear graveyards yawning from their sleep—and yet I observe it’s a gorgeous morning without, the flowers are flowering, the trees are treeing with one another, and you, if I mistake not, are on your honeymoon!
Nina
[Immediately gaily mocking]
Oh, very well, old thing! “God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world!” And Pippa’s cured of the pip!
[She dances up to him]
Marsden
[Gallantly]
Pippa is certainly a pippin this morning!
Nina
[Kisses him quickly]
You deserve one for that! All I meant was that ghosts remind me of men’s smart crack about women, you can’t live with them and can’t live without them.
[Stands still and looks at him teasingly]
But there you stand proving me a liar by every breath you ​draw! You’re ghostless and womanless—and as sleek and satisfied as a pet seal!
[She sticks out her tongue at him and makes a face of superior scorn]
Bah! That for you, ’Fraid-cat Charlie, you slacker bachelor!
[She runs to the kitchen door]
I’m going to bum some more coffee! How about you?
Marsden
[With a forced smile]
No, thank you.
[She disappears into the kitchen]
[Thinking with bitter pain]
Ghostless! . . . if she only knew . . . that joking tone hides her real contempt! . . .
[Self-mockingly]
“But when the girls began to play ’Fraid-cat Charlie ran away!”
[Then rallying himself]
Bosh! . . . I haven’t had such thoughts . . . not since their marriage . . . happy in her happiness . . . but is she happy? . . . in the first few months she was obviously playing a part . . . kissed him too much . . . as if she’d determined to make herself a loving wife . . . and then all of a sudden she became contented . . . her face filled out . . . her eyes lazily examined peace . . . pregnant . . . yes, she must be . . . I hope so. . . . why? . . . for her sake . . . my own, too . . . when she has a child I know I can entirely accept . . . forget I have lost her . . . lost her? . . . silly ass! . . . how can you lose what you never possessed? . . . except in dreams! . . .
[Shaking his head exasperatedly]
​Round and round . . . thoughts . . . damn pests! . . . mosquitoes of the soul . . . whine, sting, suck one’s blood . . . why did I invite Nina and Sam on this tour . . . it’s a business trip with me, really . . . I need a new setting for my next novel . . . “Mr. Marsden departs a bit from his familiar field” . . . well, there they were stuck in the Professor’s house . . . couldn’t afford a vacation . . . never had a honeymoon . . . I’ve pretended to be done up every night so they could . . . I’ve gone to bed right after dinner so they could be alone and . . . I wonder if she can really like him . . . that way? . . .
[The sound of Evans’ voice and his mother’s is heard from the garden. Marsden goes over and carefully peers out]
Sam with his mother . . . peculiar woman . . . strong . . . good character for a novel . . . no, she’s too somber . . . her eyes are the saddest . . . and, at the same time, the grimmest . . . they’re coming in . . . I’ll drive around the country a bit . . . give them a chance for a family conference . . . discuss Nina’s pregnancy, I suppose . . . does Sam know? . . . he gives no indication . . . why do wives hide it from their husbands? . . . ancient shame . . . guilty of continuing life, of bringing fresh pain into the world . . .
[He goes out, rear. The outside door in the hall is heard being opened and Evans and his mother evidently meet Marsden as he is about to go out. Their voices, his voice explaining, are heard, then the outer door being opened and shut again as Marsden departs. A moment later Evans and his mother enter the dining room. Sam looks timorously happy, as if he could not quite believe in his good fortune and had constantly to reassure himself about it, yet he is riding the crest of the wave, he radiates love and devotion and boyish adoration. He is ​a charming-looking fresh boy now. He wears a sweater and linen knickers, collegiate to the last degree. His mother is a tiny woman with a frail figure, her head and face, framed in iron-gray hair, seeming much too large for her body, so that at first glance she gives one the impression of a wonderfully made, lifelike doll. She is only about forty-five but she looks at least sixty. Her face with its delicate features must have once been of a romantic, tender, clinging-vine beauty, but what has happened to her has compressed its defenseless curves into planes, its mouth into the thin line around a locked door, its gentle chin has been forced out aggressively by a long reliance on clenched teeth. She is very pale. Her big dark eyes are grim with the prisoner-pain of a walled-in soul. Yet a sweet loving-kindness, the ghost of an old faith and trust in life’s goodness, hovers girlishly, fleetingly, about the corners of her mouth and softens into deep sorrow the shadowy grimness of her eyes. Her voice jumps startlingly in tone from a caressing gentleness to a blunted flat assertiveness, as if what she said then was merely a voice on its own without human emotion to inspire it]
Evans
[As they come in—rattling on in the cocksure boastful way of a boy showing off his prowess before his mother, confident of thrilled adulation]
In a few years you won’t have to worry one way or another about the darned old apple crop. I’ll be able to take care of you then. Wait and see! Of course, I’m not making so much now. I couldn’t expect to. I’ve only just started. But I’m making good, all right, all right—since I got married—and it’s only a question of time when— Why, to show you, Cole—he’s the manager and the best egg ever—called ​me into his office and told me he’d had his eye on me, that my stuff was exactly what they wanted, and he thought I had the makings of a real find.
[Proudly]
How’s that? That’s certainly fair enough, isn’t it?
Mrs. Evans
[Vaguely—she has evidently not heard much of what he said]
That’s fine, Sammy.
[Thinking apprehensively]
I do hope I’m wrong! . . . but that old shiver of dread took me the minute she stepped in the door! . . . I don’t think she’s told Sammy but I got to make sure. . . .
Evans
[Seeing her preoccupation now—deeply hurt—testily]
I’ll bet you didn’t hear a word I said! Are you still worrying about how the darn old apples are going to turn out?
Mrs. Evans
[With a guilty start—protestingly]
Yes, I did hear you, Sammy—every word! That’s just what I was thinking about—how proud I am you’re doing so wonderful well!
Evans
[Mollified but still grumbling]
You’d never guess it from the gloomy way you looked!
[But encouraged to go on]
And Cole asked me if I was married—seemed to take a real personal interest—said he was glad to hear it because marriage was what put the right kind of ambition into a fellow—​unselfish ambition—working for his wife and not just himself—
[Then embarrassedly]
He even asked me if we were expecting an addition to the family.
Mrs. Evans
[Seeing this is her chance—quickly—forcing a smile]
I’ve been meaning to ask you that myself, Sammy.
[Blurts out apprehensively]
She—Nina—she isn’t going to have a baby, is she?
Evans
[With an indefinable guilty air—as if he were reluctant to admit it]
I—why—you mean, is she now? I don’t think so, Mother.
[He strolls over to the window whistling with an exaggeratedly casual air, and looks out]
Mrs. Evans
[Thinking with grim relief]
He don’t know . . . there’s that much to be thankful for, anyway. . . .
Evans
[Thinking with intense longing]
If that’d only happen! . . . soon!. . . Nina’s begun to love me . . . a little . . . I’ve felt it the last two months . . . God, it’s made me happy! . . . before that she didn’t . . . only liked me . . . that was all I asked . . . never dared hope she’d come to love me . . . even a little . . . so soon . . . sometimes I feel it’s too good to be true . . . don’t deserve it . . . and now . . . if ​that’d happen . . . then I’d feel sure . . . it’d be there . . . half Nina, half me . . . living proof! . . .
[Then an apprehensive note creeping in]
And I know she wants a baby so much . . . one reason why she married me . . . and I know she’s felt right along that then she’d love me . . . really love me . . .
[Gloomily]
I wonder why . . . ought to have happened before this . . . hope it’s nothing wrong . . . with me! . . .
[He starts, flinging off this thought—then suddenly clutching at a straw, turns hopefully to his mother]
Why did you ask me that, Mother? D’you think—?
Mrs. Evans
[Hastily]
No, indeed! I don’t think she is! I wouldn’t say so at all!
Evans
[Dejectedly]
Oh—I thought perhaps—
[Then changing the subject]
I suppose I ought to go up and say hello to Aunt Bessie.
Mrs. Evans
[Her face becoming defensive—in blunted tones, a trifle pleadingly]
I wouldn’t, Sammy. She hasn’t seen you since you were eight. She wouldn’t know you. And you’re on your honeymoon, and old age is always sad to young folks. Be happy while you can!
[Then pushing him toward door]
Look here! You catch that friend, he’s just getting his car out. You drive to town with him, give me a chance to get to ​know my daughter-in-law, and call her to account for how she’s taking care of you!
[She laughs forcedly]
Evans
[Bursting out passionately]
Better than I deserve! She’s an angel, Mother! I know you’ll love her!
Mrs. Evans
[Gently]
I do already, Sammy! She’s so pretty and sweet!
Evans
[Kisses her—joyously]
I’ll tell her that. I’m going out this way and kiss her good-bye.
[He runs out through the kitchen door]
Mrs. Evans
[Looking after him—passionately]
He loves her! . . . he’s happy! . . . that’s all that counts! . . . being happy! . . .
[Thinking apprehensively]
If only she isn’t going to have a baby . . . if only she doesn’t care so much about having one . . . I got to have it out with her . . . got to! . . . no other way . . . in mercy . . . in justice . . . this has got to end with my boy . . . and he’s got to live happy! . . .
[At the sound of steps from the kitchen she straightens up in her chair stiffly]
Nina
[Comes in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand, smiling happily]
Good morning—
[She hesitates—then shyly]
Mother.
[She comes over and kisses her—slips down and sits on the floor beside her]
Mrs. Evans
[Flusteredly—hurriedly]
Good morning! It’s a real fine day, isn’t it? I ought to have been here and got your breakfast, but I was out gallivanting round the place with Sammy. I hope you found everything you wanted.
Nina
Indeed I did! And I ate so much I’m ashamed of myself!
[She nods at the cup of coffee and laughs]
See. I’m still at it.
Mrs. Evans
Good for you!
Nina
I ought to apologize for coming down so late. Sam should have called me. But I wasn’t able to get to sleep until after daylight somehow.
Mrs. Evans
[Strangely]
You couldn’t sleep? Why? Did you feel anything funny—about this house?
Nina
[Struck by her tone—looks up]
No. Why?
[Thinking]
How her face changes! . . . what sad eyes! . . .
Mrs. Evans
[Thinking in an agony of apprehension]
Got to start in to tell her . . . got to . . .
Nina
[Apprehensive herself now]
That sick dead feeling . . . when something is going to happen . . . I felt it before I got the cable about Gordon . . .
[Then taking a sip of coffee, and trying to be pleasantly casual]
Sam said you wanted to talk to me.
Mrs. Evans
[Dully]
Yes. You love my boy, don’t you?
Nina
[Startled—forcing a smile, quickly]
Why, of course!
[Reassuring herself]
No, it isn’t a lie . . . I do love him . . . the father of my baby . . .
Mrs. Evans
[Blurts out]
Are you going to have a baby, Nina?
Nina
[She presses Mrs. Evans’ hand]
[Simply]
Yes, Mother.
Mrs. Evans
[In her blunt flat tones—with a mechanical rapidity to her words]
Don’t you think it’s too soon? Don’t you think you better wait until Sammy’s making more money? Don’t you think it’ll be a drag on him and you? Why don’t you just go on being happy together, just you two?
Nina
[Thinking frightenedly]
What is behind what she’s saying? . . . that feeling of death again! . . .
[Moving away from her—repulsed]
No, I don’t think any of those things, Mrs. Evans. I want a baby—beyond everything! We both do!
Mrs. Evans
[Hopelessly]
I know.
[Then grimly]
But you can’t! You’ve got to make up your mind you can’t!
[Thinking fiercely—even with satisfaction]
Tell her! . . . make her suffer what I was made to suffer! . . . I’ve been too lonely! . . .
Nina
[Thinking with terrified foreboding]
I knew it! . . . Out of a blue sky . . . black! . . .
[Springing to her feet—bewilderedly]
What do you mean? How can you say a thing like that?
Mrs. Evans
[Reaching out her hand tenderly, trying to touch Nina]
It’s because I want Sammy—and you, too, child—to be happy.
[Then as Nina shrinks away from her hand—in her blunted tones]
You just can’t.
Nina
[Defiantly]
But I can! I have already! I mean—I am, didn’t you understand me?
Mrs. Evans
[Gently]
I know it’s hard.
[Then inexorably]
But you can’t go on!
Nina
[Violently]
I don’t believe you know what you’re saying! It’s too terrible for you—Sam’s own mother—how would you have felt if someone—when you were going to have Sam—came to you and said—?
Mrs. Evans
[Thinking fiercely]
Now’s my chance! . . .
[Tonelessly]
They did say it ! Sam’s own father did—my husband! And I said it to myself! And I did all I could, all my husband could think of, so’s I wouldn’t—but we didn’t know enough. And right to the time the pains come on, I prayed Sammy’d be born dead, and Sammy’s father prayed, but Sammy was born healthy and smiling, and we just had to love him, and live in fear. He doubled the torment of fear we lived in. And that’s what you’d be in for. And Sammy, he’d go the way his father went. And your baby, you’d be bringing it into torment.
[A bit violently]
I tell you it’d be a crime—a crime worse than murder!
[Then recovering—commiseratingly]
So you just can’t, Nina!
Nina
[Who has been listening distractedly—thinking]
Don’t listen to her! . . . feeling of death! . . . what is it? . . . she’s trying to kill my baby! . . . oh, I hate her! . . .
[Hysterically resentful]
What do you mean? Why don’t you speak plainly?
[Violently]
I think you’re horrible! Praying your baby would be born dead! That’s a lie! You couldn’t!
Mrs. Evans
[Thinking]
I know what she’s doing now . . . just what I did . . . trying not to believe . . .
[Fiercely]
But I’ll make her! . . . she’s got to suffer, too! . . . I been too lonely! . . . she’s got to share and help me save my Sammy! . . .
[With an even more blunted flat relentless tonelessness]
I thought I was plain, but I’ll be plainer. Only remember it’s a family secret, and now you’re one of the family. It’s the curse on the Evanses. My husband’s mother—she was an only child—died in an asylum and her father before her. I know that for a fact. And my husband’s sister, Sammy’s aunt, she’s out of her mind. She lives on the top floor of this house, hasn’t been out of her room in years, I’ve taken care of her. She just sits, doesn’t say a word, but she’s happy, she laughs to herself a lot, she hasn’t a care in the world. But I remember when she was all right, she was always unhappy, she never got married, most people around here were afraid of the Evanses in spite of their being rich for hereabouts. They knew about the craziness going back, I guess, for heaven knows how long. I didn’t know about the Evanses until after I’d married my husband. He came to the town I lived in, no one there knew about the Evanses. He didn’t tell me until after we were married. He asked me to forgive him, he said he loved me so much he’d have gone mad without me, said I was his only hope of salvation. So I forgave him. I loved him an awful lot. I said to myself, I’ll be his salvation—and maybe I could have been if we hadn’t had Sammy born. My husband kept real well ​up to then. We’d swore we’d never have children, we never forgot to be careful for two whole years. Then one night we’d both gone to a dance, we’d both had a little punch to drink, just enough—to forget—driving home in the moonlight—that moonlight!—such little things at the back of big things!
Nina
[In a dull moan]
I don’t believe you! I won’t believe you!
Mrs. Evans
[Drones on]
My husband, Sammy’s father, in spite of all he and I fought against it, he finally gave in to it when Sammy was only eight, he couldn’t keep up any more living in fear for Sammy, thinking any minute the curse might get him, every time he was sick, or had a headache, or bumped his head, or started crying, or had a nightmare and screamed, or said something queer like children do naturally.
[A bit stridently]
Living like that with that fear is awful torment! I know that! I went through it by his side! It nearly drove me crazy, too—but I didn’t have it in my blood! And that’s why I’m telling you! You got to see you can’t, Nina!
Nina
[Suddenly breaking out—frenziedly]
I don’t believe you! I don’t believe Sam would ever have married me if he knew—!
Mrs. Evans
[Sharply]
Who said Sammy knew? He don’t know a single thing about it! That’s been the work of my life, keeping him from knowing. When his father gave up and went off into it I sent Sammy right off to boarding school. I told him his father was sick, and a little while after I sent word his father was dead, and from then on until his father did really die during Sammy’s second year to college, I kept him away at school in winter and camp in summers and I went to see him, I never let him come home.
[With a sigh]
It was hard, giving up Sammy, knowing I was making him forget he had a mother. I was glad taking care of them two kept me so busy I didn’t get much chance to think then. But here’s what I’ve come to think since, Nina: I’m certain sure my husband might have kept his mind with the help of my love if I hadn’t had Sammy. And if I’d never had Sammy I’d never have loved Sammy—or missed him, would I?—and I’d have kept my husband.
Nina
[Not heeding this last—with wild mockery]
And I thought Sam was so normal—so healthy and sane—not like me! I thought he’d give me such healthy, happy children and I’d forget myself in them and learn to love him!
Mrs. Evans
[Horrified, jumping to her feet]
Learn to? You told me you did love Sammy!
Nina
No! Maybe I almost have—lately—but only when I thought of his baby! Now I hate him!
[She begins to weep hysterically. Mrs. Evans goes to her and puts her arms around her. Nina sobs out]
Don’t touch me! I hate you, too! Why didn’t you tell him he must never marry!
Mrs. Evans
What reason could I give, without telling him everything? And I never heard about you till after you were married. Then I wanted to write to you but I was scared he might read it. And I couldn’t leave her upstairs to come away to see you. I kept writing Sammy to bring you here right off, although having him come frightened me to death for fear he might get to suspect something. You got to get him right away from here, Nina! I just kept hoping you wouldn’t want children right away—young folks don’t nowadays—until I’d seen you and told you everything. And I thought you’d love him like I did his father, and be satisfied with him alone.
Nina
[Lifting her head—wildly]
No! I don’t! I won’t! I’ll leave him!
Mrs. Evans
[Shaking her, fiercely]
You can’t! He’d go crazy sure then! You’d be a devil! Don’t you see how he loves you?
Nina
[Breaking away from her—harshly]
Well, I don’t love him! I only married him because he needed me—and I needed children! And now you tell me I’ve got to kill my—oh, yes, I see I’ve got to, you needn’t argue any more! I love it too much to make it run that chance! And I hate it too, now, because it’s sick, it’s not my baby, it’s his!
[With terrible ironic bitterness]
And still you can dare to tell me I can’t even leave Sam!
Mrs. Evans
[Very sadly and bitterly]
You just said you married him because he needed you. Don’t he need you now—more’n ever? But I can’t tell you not to leave him, not if you don’t love him. But you oughtn’t to have married him when you didn’t love him. And it’ll be your fault, what’ll happen.
Nina
[Torturedly]
What will happen?—what do you mean?—Sam will be all right—just as he was before—and it’s not my fault anyway!—it’s not my fault!
[Then thinking conscience-strickenly]
Poor Sam . . . she’s right . . . it’s not his fault . . . it’s mine . . . I wanted to use him to save myself . . . I acted the coward again . . . as I did with Gordon . . .
Mrs. Evans
[Grimly]
You know what’ll happen to him if you leave him—after all I’ve told you!
[Then breaking into intense pleading]
Oh, I’d get down on my knees to you, don’t make my boy run that risk! You got to give one Evans, the last one, a chance to live in this world! And you’ll learn to love him, if you give up enough for him!
[Then with a grim smile]
Why, I even love that idiot upstairs, I’ve taken care of her so many years, lived her life for her with my life, you might say. You give your life to Sammy, then you’ll love him same as you love yourself. You’ll have to! That’s sure as death!
[She laughs a queer gentle laugh full of amused bitterness]
Nina
[With a sort of dull stupid wonderment]
And you’ve found peace?—
Mrs. Evans
[Sardonically]
There’s peace in the green fields of Eden, they say! You got to die to find out!
[Then proudly]
But I can say I feel proud of having lived fair to them that gave me love and trusted in me!
Nina
[Struck—confusedly]
Yes—that’s true, isn’t it?
[Thinking strangely]
Lived fair . . . pride . . . trust . . . play the game! . . . who is speaking to me . . . Gordon! . . . oh, Gor​don, do you mean I must give Sam the life I didn’t give you? . . . Sam loved you too . . . he said, if we have a boy, we’ll call him Gordon in Gordon’s honor . . . Gordon’s honor! . . . what must I do now in your honor, Gordon? . . . yes! . . . I know! . . .
[Speaking mechanically in a dull voice]
All right, Mother. I’ll stay with Sam. There’s nothing else I can do, is there, when it isn’t his fault, poor boy!
[Then suddenly snapping and bursting out in a despairing cry]
But I’ll be so lonely! I’ll have lost my baby!
[She sinks down on her knees at Mrs. Evans’ feet—piteously]
Oh, Mother, how can I keep on living?
Mrs. Evans
[Thinking miserably]
Now she knows my suffering . . . now I got to help her . . . she’s got a right to have a baby . . . another baby . . . sometime . . . somehow. . . she’s giving her life to save my Sammy . . . I got to save her! . . .
[Stammeringly]
Maybe, Nina—
Nina
[Dully and resentfully again now]
And how about Sam? You want him to be happy, don’t you? It’s just as important for him as it is for me that I should have a baby! If you know anything at all about him, you ought to see that!
Mrs. Evans
[Sadly]
I know that. I see that in him, Nina.
[Gropingly]
There must be a way—somehow. I remember when I was carrying Sam, sometimes I’d forget I was a wife, I’d only remember the child in me. And then I used to wish I’d gone out deliberate in our first year, without my husband knowing, and picked a man, a healthy male to breed by, same’s we do with stock, to give the man I loved a healthy child. And if I didn’t love that other man nor him me where would be the harm? Then God would whisper: “It’d be a sin, adultery, the worst sin!” But after He’d gone I’d argue back again to myself, then we’d have a healthy child, I needn’t be afraid! And maybe my husband would feel without ever knowing how he felt it, that I wasn’t afraid and that child wasn’t cursed and so he needn’t fear and I could save him.
[Then scornfully]
But I was too afraid of God then to have ever done it!
[Then very simply]
He loved children so, my poor husband did, and the way they took to him, you never saw anything like it, he was a natural born father. And Sammy’s the same.
Nina
[As from a distance—strangely]
Yes, Sammy’s the same. But I’m not the same as you.
[Defiantly]
I don’t believe in God the Father!
Mrs. Evans
[Strangely]
Then it’d be easy for you.
[With a grim smile]
​And I don’t believe in Him, neither, not any more. I used to be a great one for worrying about what’s God and what’s devil, but I got richly over it living here with poor folks that was being punished for no sins of their own, and me being punished with them for no sin but loving much.
[With decision]
Being happy, that’s the nearest we can ever come to knowing what’s good! Being happy, that’s good! The rest is just talk!
[She pauses—then with a strange austere sternness]
I love my boy, Sammy. I could see how much he wants you to have a baby. Sammy’s got to feel sure you love him—to be happy. Whatever you can do to make him happy is good—is good, Nina! I don’t care what! You’ve got to have a healthy baby—sometime—so’s you can both be happy! It’s your rightful duty!
Nina
[Confusedly—in a half-whisper]
Yes, Mother.
[Thinking longingly]
I want to be happy! . . . it’s my right . . . and my duty! . . .
[Then suddenly in guilty agony]
Oh, my baby . . . my poor baby . . . I’m forgetting you . . . desiring another after you are dead! . . . I feel you beating against my heart for mercy . . . oh ! . . .
[She weeps with bitter anguish]
Mrs. Evans
[Gently and with deep sympathy]
I know what you’re suffering. And I wouldn’t say what I ​just said now only I know us two mustn’t see each other ever again. You and Sammy have got to forget me.
[As Nina makes a motion of protest—grimly and inexorably]
Oh, yes, you will—easy. People forget everything. They got to, poor people! And I’m saying what I said about a healthy baby so’s you will remember it when you need to, after you’ve forgotten—this one.
Nina
[Sobbing pitifully]
Don’t! Please, Mother!
Mrs. Evans
[With sudden tenderness—gathering Nina up in her arms, brokenly]
You poor child! You’re like the daughter of my sorrow! You’re closer to me now than ever Sammy could be! I want you to be happy!
[She begins to sob, too, kissing Nina’s bowed head]
CURTAIN