# Rachel (Grimke 1920)/Act I

Layout 2
ACT I
RACHEL
ACT I.
The scene is a room scrupulously neat and clean and plainly furnished. The walls are painted green, the woodwork, white. In the rear at the left an open doorway leads into a hall. Its bare, green wall and white baseboard are all that can be seen of it. It leads into the other rooms of the flat. In the centre of the rear wall of the room is a window. It is shut. The white sash curtains are pushed to right and left as far as they will go. The green shade is rolled up to the top. Through the window can be seen the red bricks of a house wall, and the tops of a couple of trees moving now and then in the wind. Within the window, and just below the sill, is a shelf upon which are a few potted plants. Between the window and the door is a bookcase full of books and above it, hanging on the wall, a simply framed, inexpensive copy of Millet’s “The Reapers.” There is a run extending from the right center to just below the right upper entrance. It is the vestibule of the flat. Its open doorway faces the left wall. In the right wall near the front is another window. Here the sash curtains are drawn together and the green shade is partly lowered. The window is up from the bottom. Through it street noises can be heard. In front of this window is an open, threaded sewing-machine. Some frail, white fabric is lying upon it. There is a chair in ​front of the machine and at the machine’s left a small table covered with a green cloth. In the rear of the left wall and directly opposite to the entrance to the flat is the doorway leading into the kitchenette, dishes on shelves can be seen behind glass doors.
In the center of the left wall is a fireplace with a grate in it for coals; over this is a wooden mantel painted white. In the center is a small clock. A pair of vases, green and white in coloring, one at each end, complete the ornaments. Over the mantel is a narrow mirror; and over this, hanging on the wall, Burne-Jones’ “Golden Stairs,” simply framed. Against the front end of the left wall is an upright piano with a stool in front of it. On top is music neatly piled. Hanging over the piano is Raphael’s “Sistine Madonna.” In the center of the floor is a green rug, and in the center of this, a rectangular dining-room table, the long side facing front. It is covered with a green table-cloth. Three dining-room chairs are at the table, one at either end and one at the rear facing front. Above the table is a chandelier with four gas jets enclosed by glass globes. At the right front center is a rather shabby arm-chair upholstered in green.
Left and right from the spectator’s point of view.
Before the sewing-machine, Mrs. Loving is seated. She looks worried. She is sewing swiftly and deftly by hand upon a waist in her lap. It is a white, beautiful thing and she sews upon it delicately. It is about half-past four in the afternoon; and the light is failing. Mrs. Loving pauses in her sewing, rises and lets the window-shade near her go up to the top. She pushes the sash-curtains to either side, the corner of a red brick house wall being thus brought into view. She shivers slightly, then pushes the window down at ​the bottom and lowers it a trifle from the top. The street noises become less distinct. She takes off her thimble, rubs her hands gently, puts the thimble on again, and looks at the clock on the mantel. She then reseats herself, with her chair as close to the window as possible and begins to sew. Presently a key is heard, and the door opens and shuts noisily. Rachel comes in from the vestibule. In her left arm she carries four or five books strapped together; under her right, a roll of music. Her hat is twisted over her left ear and her hair is falling in tendrils about her face. She brings into the room with her the spirit of abounding life, health, joy, youth. Mrs. Loving pauses, needle in hand, as soon as she hears the turning key and the banging door. There is a smile on her face. For a second, mother and daughter smile at each other. Then Rachel throws her books upon the dining-room table, places the music there also, but with care, and rushing to her mother, gives her a bear hug and a kiss.
Rachel: Ma dear! dear, old Ma dear!
Mrs. Loving: Look out for the needle, Rachel! The waist! Oh, Rachel!
Rachel (On her knees and shaking her finger directly under her mother’s nose.): You old, old fraud! You know you adore being hugged. I’ve a good mind . . .
Mrs. Loving: Now, Rachel, please! Besides, I know your tricks. You think you can make me forget you are late. What time is it?
Rachel (Looking at the clock and expressing surprise): Jiminy Xmas! (Whistles) Why, it’s five o’clock!
Mrs. Loving (Severely): Well!
Rachel (Plaintively): Now, Ma dear, you’re going to be horrid and cross.
​Mrs. Loving (Laughing): Really, Rachel, that expression is not particularly affecting, when your hat is over your ear, and you look, with your hair over your eyes, exactly like some one’s pet poodle. I wonder if you are ever going to grow up and be ladylike.
Rachel: Oh! Ma dear, I hope not, not for the longest time, two long, long years at least. I just want to be silly and irresponsible, and have you to love and torment, and, of course, Tom, too.
Mrs. Loving (Smiling down at Rachel): You’ll not make me forget, young lady. Why are you late, Rachel?
Rachel: Well, Ma dear, I’m your pet poodle, and my hat is over my ear, and I’m late, for the loveliest reason.
Mrs. Loving: Don’t be silly, Rachel.
Rachel: That may sound silly, but it isn’t. And please don’t “Rachel” me so much. It was honestly one whole hour ago when I opened the front door down stairs. I know it was, because I heard the postman telling some one it was four o’clock. Well, I climbed the first flight, and was just starting up the second, when a little shrill voice said, “’Lo!” I raised my eyes, and there, half-way up the stairs, sitting in the middle of a step, was just the dearest, cutest, darlingest little brown baby boy you ever saw. “’Lo ! yourself,” I said. “What are you doing, and who are you anyway?” “I’m Jimmy; and I’m widing to New York on the choo-choo tars.” As he looked entirely too young to be going such a distance by himself, I asked him if I might go too. For a minute or two he considered the question and me very seriously, and then he said, “’Es,” and made room for me on the step beside him. We’ve been everywhere: New York, Chicago, Boston, London, Paris and Oshkosh. I wish you could have heard him say that last place. I suggested going there just to hear him. Now, Ma dear, is it any wonder I am late? See ​all the places we have been in just one “teeny, weeny” hour? We would have been traveling yet, but his horrid, little mother came out and called him in. They’re in the flat below, the new people. But before he went, Ma dear, he said the “cunningest” thing. He said, “Will you turn out an’ p’ay wif me aden in two minutes?” I nearly hugged him to death, and it’s a wonder my hat is on my head at all. Hats are such unimportant nuisances anyway!
Mrs. Loving: Unimportant nuisances! What ridiculous language you do use, Rachel! Well, I’m no prophet, but I see very distinctly what is going to happen. This little brown baby will be living here night and day. You’re not happy unless some child is trailing along in your rear.
Rachel (Mischievously): Now, Ma dear, whose a hypocrite? What? I suppose you don’t like children! I can tell you one thing, though, it won’t be my fault if he isn’t here night and day. Oh, I wish he were all mine, every bit of him! Ma dear, do you suppose that “she woman” he calls mother would let him come up here until it is time for him to go to bed? I’m going down there this minute. (Rises impetuously).
Mrs. Loving: Rachel, for Heaven’s sake! No! I am entirely too busy and tired today without being bothered with a child romping around in here.
Rachel (Reluctantly and a trifle petulantly): Very well, then. (For several moments she watches her mother, who has begun to sew again. The displeasure vanishes from her face). Ma dear!
Mrs. Loving: Well.
Rachel: Is there anything wrong today?
Mrs. Loving: I’m just tired, chickabiddy, that’s all.
Rachel (Moves over to the table. Mechanically takes off her hat and coat and carries them out into the entryway ​of the flat. She returns and goes to the looking glass over the fireplace and tucks in the tendrils of her hair in rather a preoccupied manner. The electric doorbell rings. She returns to the speaking tube in the vestibule. Her voice is heard answering): Yes!—Yes!—No, I’m not Mrs. Loving. She’s here, yes!—What? Oh! come right up! (Appearing in the doorway). Ma dear, it’s some man, who is coming for Mrs. Strong’s waist.
Mrs. Loving (Pausing and looking at Rachel): It is probably her son. She said she would send for it this afternoon. (Rachel disappears. A door is heard opening and closing. There is the sound of a man’s voice. Rachel ushers in Mr. John Strong.)
Strong (Bowing pleasantly to Mrs. Loving): Mrs. Loving? (Mrs. Loving bows, puts down her sewing, rises and goes toward Strong). My name is Strong. My mother asked me to come by and get her waist this afternoon. She hoped it would be finished.
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Mr. Strong, it is all ready. If you’ll sit down a minute, I’ll wrap it up for you. (She goes into hallway leading to other rooms in flat).
Rachel (Manifestly ill at ease at being left alone with a stranger; attempting, however, to be the polite hostess): Do sit down, Mr. Strong. (They both sit).
Rachel (Nervously after a pause): It’s a very pleasant day, isn’t it, Mr. Strong?
Strong: Yes, very. (He leans back composedly, his hat on his knee, the faintest expression of amusement in his eyes).
Rachel (After a pause): It’s quite a climb up to our flat, don’t you think?
Strong: Why, no ! It didn’t strike me so. I’m not old enough yet to mind stairs.
​Rachel: (Nervously): Oh! I didn’t mean that you are old! Anyone can see you are quite young, that is, of course, not too young, but,—(Strong laughs quietly). There! I don’t blame you for laughing. I’m always clumsy just like that.
Mrs. Loving (Calling from the other room): Rachel, bring me a needle and the sixty cotton, please.
Rachel: All right, Ma dear! (Rummages for the cotton in the machine drawer, and upsets several spools upon the floor. To Strong): You see! I can’t even get a spool of cotton without spilling things all over the floor. (Strong smiles, Rachel picks up the spools and finally gets the cotton and needle). Excuse me! (Goes out door leading to other rooms. Strong left to himself, looks around casually. The “Golden Stairs” interests him and the “Sistine Madonna.”)
Rachel (Reenters, evidently continuing her function of hostess): We were talking about the climb to our flat, weren’t we? You see, when you’re poor, you have to live in a top flat. There is always a compensation, though; we have bully—I mean nice air, better light, a lovely view, and nobody “thud-thudding” up and down over our heads night and day. The people below have our “thud-thudding,” and it must be something awful, especially when Tom and I play “Ivanhoe” and have a tournament up here. We’re entirely too old, but we still play. Ma dear rather dreads the climb up three flights, so Tom and I do all the errands. We don’t mind climbing the stairs, particularly when we go up two or three at a time,—that is—Tom still does. I can’t, Ma dear stopped me. (Sighs). I’ve got to grow up it seems.
Strong (Evidently amused): It is rather hard being a girl, isn’t it?
​Rachel: Oh, no! It’s not hard at all. That’s the trouble; they won’t let me be a girl. I’d love to be.
Mrs. Loving (Reentering with parcel. She smiles): My chatterbox, I see, is entertaining you, Mr. Strong. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I forgot, I found, to sew the ruching in the neck. I hope everything is satisfactory. If it isn’t, I’ll be glad to make any changes.
Strong (Who has risen upon her entrance): Thank you, Mrs. Loving, I’m sure everything is all right. (He takes the package and bows to her and Rachel He moves towards the vestibule, Mrs. Loving following him. She passes through the doorway first. Before leaving, Strong turns for a second and looks back quietly at Rachel. He goes out too. Rachel returns to the mirror, looks at her face for a second, and then begins to touch and pat her hair lightly and delicately here and there. Mrs. Loving returns).
Rachel (Still at the glass): He was rather nice, wasn’t he, Ma dear?—for a man? (Laughs). I guess my reason’s a vain one,—he let me do all the talking. (Pauses). Strong? Strong? Ma dear, is his mother the little woman with the sad, black eyes?
Mrs. Loving (Resuming her sewing; sitting before the machine). Yes. I was rather curious, I confess, to see this son of hers. The whole time I’m fitting her she talks of nothing else. She worships him. (Pauses) . It’s rather a sad case, I believe. She is a widow. Her husband was a doctor and left her a little money. She came up from the South to educate this boy. Both of them worked hard and the boy got through college. Three months he hunted for work that a college man might expect to get. You see he had the tremendous handicap of being colored. As the two of them had to live, one day, without her knowing it, he hired himself out as a waiter. He has been ​one now for two years. He is evidently goodness itself to his mother.
Rachel (Slowly and thoughtfully): Just because he is colored! (Pauses). We sing a song at school, I believe, about “The land of the free and the home of the brave.” What an amusing nation it is.
Mrs. Loving (Watching Rachel anxiously): Come, Rachel, you haven’t time for “amusing nations.” Remember, you haven’t practised any this afternoon. And put your books away; don’t leave them on the table. You didn’t practise any this morning either, did you?
Rachel: No, Ma dear,—didn’t wake up in time. (Goes to the table and in an abstracted manner puts books on the bookcase; returns to the table; picks up the roll of sheet music she has brought home with her; brightens; impulsively) Ma dear, just listen to this lullaby. It’s the sweetest thing. I was so “daffy” over it, one of the girls at school lent it to me. (She rushes to the piano with the music and plays the accompaniment through softly and then sings, still softly and with great expression, Jessie Gaynor’s “Slumber Boat”)—
Listen, Ma dear, right here. Isn’t it lovely? (Plays and sings very softly and slowly):
(Pauses; in hushed tones) Ma dear, it’s so beautiful—it—it hurts.
Mrs. Loving (Quietly): Yes, dear, it is pretty.
Rachel (For several minutes watches her mother’s profile from the piano stool. Her expression is rather wistful): Ma dear!
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel.
Rachel: What’s the matter?
Mrs. Loving (Without turning): Matter! What do you mean?
Rachel: I don’t know. I just feel something is not quite right with you.
Mrs. Loving: I’m only tired that’s all.
Rachel: Perhaps. But—(Watches her mother a moment or two longer; shakes her head; turns back to the piano. She is thoughtful; looks at her hands in her lap). Ma dear, wouldn’t it be nice if we could keep all the babies in the world—always little babies? Then they’d be always little, and cunning, and lovable; and they could never grow up, then, and—and—be bad. I’m so sorry for mothers, whose little babies—grow up—and—and—are bad.
Mrs. Loving (Startled; controlling herself, looks at Rachel anxiously, perplexedly. Rachel’s eyes are still on her ​hands. Attempting a light tone): Come, Rachel, what experience have you had with mothers whose babies have grown up to be bad? You—you talk like an old, old woman.
Rachel (Without raising her eyes, quietly): I know I’m not old; but, just the same I know that is true. (Softly) And I’m so sorry for the mothers.
Mrs. Loving (With a forced laugh): Well, Miss Methuselah, how do you happen to know all this? Mothers whose babies grow up to be bad don’t, as a rule, parade their faults before the world.
Rachel: That’s just it—that’s how you know. They don’t talk at all.
Mrs. Loving (Involuntarily): Oh! (Ceases to sew; looks at Rachel sharply; she is plainly worried. There is a long silence. Presently Rachel raises her eyes to Raphael’s “Madonna” over the piano. Her expression becomes rapt; then, very softly, her eyes still on the picture, she plays and sings Nevin’s “Mighty Lak A Rose”)—
(With head still raised, after she has finished, she closes her eyes. Half to herself and slowly) I think the loveliest thing of all the lovely things in this world is just (almost in a whisper) being a mother!
Mrs. Loving (Turns and laughs): Well, of all the startling children, Rachel! I am getting to feel, when you’re around as though I’m shut up with dynamite. What next? (Rachel rises; goes slowly to her mother, and kneels down beside her. She does not touch her mother). Why so serious, chickabiddy?
Rachel (Slowly and quietly): It is not kind to laugh at sacred things. When you laughed, it was as though you laughed—at God!
Mrs. Loving (Startled): Rachel!
Rachel (Still quietly): It’s true. It was the best in me that said that—it was God! (Pauses). And, Ma dear, if I believed that I should grow up and not be a mother, I’d pray to die now. I’ve thought about it a lot, Ma dear, and once I dreamed, and a voice said to me oh! it was so real—“Rachel, you are to be a mother to little children.” Wasn’t that beautiful? Ever since I have known how Mary felt at the “Annunciation.” (Almost in a whisper) God spoke to me through some one, and I believe. And it has explained so much to me. I know now why I just can’t resist any child. I have to love it—it calls me—it—draws me. I want to take care of it, wash it, dress it, live for it. I want the feel of its little warm body against me, its breath on my neck, its hands against my face. ​(Pauses thoughtfully for a few moments). Ma dear, here’s something I don’t understand: I love the little black and brown babies best of all. There is something about them that—that—clutches at my heart. Why—why—should they be—oh!—pathetic? I don’t understand. It’s dim. More than the other babies, I feel that I must protect them. They’re in danger, but from what? I don’t know. I’ve tried so hard to understand, but I can’t. (Her face radiant and beautiful). Ma dear, I think their white teeth and the clear whites of their big black eyes and their dimples everywhere—are—are (Breaks off). And, Ma dear, because I love them best, I pray God every night to give me, when I grow up, little black and brown babies—to protect and guard. (Wistfully). Now, Ma dear, don’t you see why you must never laugh at me again? Dear, dear, Ma dear? (Buries her head in her mother’s lap and sobs).
Mrs. Loving (For a few seconds, sits as though dazed, and then instinctively begins to caress the head in her lap. To herself) And I suppose my experience is every mother’s. Sooner or later—of a sudden she finds her own child a stranger to her. (To Rachel, very tenderly) Poor little girl! Poor little chickabiddy!
Rachel (Raising her head): Why do you say, “Poor little girl,” like that? I don’t understand. Why, Ma dear, I never saw tears in your eyes before. Is it—is it—because you know the things I do not understand? Oh! it is that.
Mrs. Loving (Simply): Yes, Rachel, and I cannot save you.
Rachel: Ma dear, you frighten me. Save me from what?
Mrs. Loving: Just life, my little chickabiddy!
Rachel: Is life so terrible? I had found it mostly beautiful. How can life be terrible, when the world is full of little children?
​Mrs. Loving (Very sadly): Oh, Rachel! Rachel!
Rachel: Ma dear, what have I said?
Mrs. Loving (Forcing a smile): Why, the truth, of course, Rachel. Life is not terrible when there are little children—and you—and Tom—and a roof over our heads—and work—and food—and clothes—and sleep at night. (Pauses). Rachel, I am not myself today. I’m tired. Forget what I’ve said. Come, chickabiddy, wipe your eyes and smile. That’s only an imitation smile, but it’s better than none. Jump up now, and light the lamp for me, will you? Tom’s late, isn’t he? I shall want you to go, too, for the rolls and pie for supper.
Rachel (Rises rather wearily and goes into the kitchenette. While she is out of the room Mrs. Loving does not move. She sits staring in front of her. The room for some time has been growing dark. Mrs. Loving can just be seen when Rachel reenters with the lamp. She places it on the small table near her mother, adjusts it, so the light falls on her mother’s work, and then lowers the window shades at the windows. She still droops. Mrs. Loving, while Rachel is in the room, is industrious. Rachel puts on her hat and coat listlessly. She does not look in the glass). Where is the money, Ma dear? I’m ready.
Mrs. Loving: Before you go, Rachel, just give a look at the meat and see if it is cooking all right, will you, dearie?
Rachel (Goes out into the kitchenette and presently returns): It’s all right, Ma dear.
Mrs. Loving (While Rachel is out of the room, she takes her pocket-book out of the machine-drawer, opens it, takes out money and gives it to Rachel upon her return): A dozen brown rolls, Rachel. Be sure they’re brown! And, I guess,—an apple pie. As you and Tom never seem to get enough apple pie, get the largest she has. And here is a quarter. Get some candy—any kind you like, Chicka​biddy. Let’s have a party tonight, I feel extravagant. Why, Rachel! why are you crying?
Rachel: Nothing, dear Ma dear. I’ll be all right when I get in the air. Goodbye! (Rushes out of the flat. Mrs. Loving sits idle. Presently the outer door of the fiat opens and shuts with a bang, and Tom appears. Mrs. Loving begins to work as soon as she hears the banging door).
Tom: ’Lo, Ma! Where’s Sis,—out? The door’s off the latch. (Kisses his mother and hangs hat in entryway).
Mrs. Loving (Greeting him with the same beautiful smile with which she greeted Rachel): Rachel just went after the rolls and pie. She’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re late, Tommy.
Tom: No, Ma—you forget—it’s pay day. (With decided shyness and awkwardness he hands her his wages). Here, Ma!
Mrs. Loving (Proudly counting it): But, Tommy, this is every bit of it. You’ll need some.
Tom: Not yet! (Constrainedly) I only wish—. Say, Ma, I hate to see you work so hard. (Fiercely) Some day—some day—. (Breaks off).
Mrs. Loving: Son, I’m as proud as though you had given me a million dollars.
Tom (Emphatically): I may some day,—you see. (Abruptly changing the subject): Gee ! Ma, I’m hungry. What’s for dinner? Smell’s good.
Mrs. Loving: Lamb and dumplings and rice.
Tom: Gee! I’m glad I’m living—and a pie too?
Mrs. Loving: Apple pie, Tommy.
Tom: Say, Ma, don’t wake me up. And shall “muzzer’s” own little boy set the table?
Mrs. Loving: Thank you, Son.
​Tom (Folds the green cloth, hangs it over the back of the arm-chair, gets white table-cloth from kitchenette and sets the table. The whole time he is whistling blithely a popular air. He lights one of the gas jets over the table): Ma!
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Son.
Tom: I made “squad” today,—I’m quarterback. Five other fellows tried to make it. We’ll all have to buy new hats, now.
Mrs. Loving (With surprise): Buy new hats! Why?
Tom (Makes a ridiculous gesture to show that his head and hers are both swelling): Honest, Ma, I had to carry my hat in my hand tonight,—couldn’t even get it to perch aloft.
Mrs. Loving (Smiling): Well, I for one, Son, am not going to say anything to make you more conceited.
Tom: You don’t have to say anything. Why, Ma, ever since I told you, you can almost look down your own back your head is so high. What? (Mrs. Loving laughs. The outer door of the flat opens and shuts. Rachel’s voice is heard).
Rachel (Without): My! that was a “drefful” climb, wasn’t it? Ma, I’ve got something here for you. (Appears in the doorway carrying packages and leading a little boy by the hand. The little fellow is shy but smiling). Hello, Tommy! Here, take these things for me. This is Jimmy. Isn’t he a dear? Come, Jimmy. (Tom carries the packages into the kitchenette. Rachel leads Jimmy to Mrs. Loving). Ma dear, this is my brown baby. I’m going to take him right down stairs again. His mother is as sweet as can be, and let me bring him up just to see you. Jimmy, this is Ma dear. (Mrs. Loving turns expectantly to see the child. Standing before her, he raises his face to hers with an engaging smile. Suddenly, without word ​or warning, her body stiffens; her hands grip her sewing convulsively; her eyes stare. She makes no sound).
Rachel (Frightened): Ma dear! What is the matter? Tom! Quick! (Tom reenters and goes to them).
Mrs. Loving (Controlling herself with an effort and breathing hard): Nothing, dears, nothing. I must be—I am—nervous tonight. (With a forced smile) How do-you-do, Jimmy? Now, Rachel—perhaps—don’t you think—you had better take him back to his mother? Good-night, Jimmy! (Eyes the child in a fascinated way the whole time he is in the room. Rachel, very much perturbed, takes the child out). Tom, open that window, please! There! That’s better! (Still breathing deeply). What a fool I am!
Tom (Patting his mother awkwardly on the back): You’re all pegged out, that’s the trouble—working entirely too hard. Can’t you stop for the night and go to bed right after supper?
Mrs. Loving: I’ll see, Tommy dear. Now, I must look after the supper.
Tom: Huh! Well, I guess not. How old do you think Rachel and I are anyway? I see; you think we’ll break some of this be-au-tiful Hav-i-land china, we bought at the “Five and Ten Cent Store.” (To Rachel who has just reentered wearing a puzzled and worried expression. She is without hat and coat). Say, Rachel, do you think you’re old enough?
Rachel: Old enough for what, Tommy?
Tom: To dish up the supper for Ma.
Rachel (With attempted sprightliness): Ma dear thinks nothing can go on in this little flat unless she does it. Let’s show her a thing or two. (They bring in the dinner. Mrs. Loving with trembling hands tries to sew. Tom and Rachel watch her covertly. Presently she gets up.)
​Mrs. Loving: I’ll be back in a minute, children. (Goes out the door that leads to the other rooms of the flat. Tom and Rachel look at each other).
Rachel (In a low voice keeping her eyes on the door): Why do you suppose she acted so strangely about Jimmy?
Tom: Don’t know—nervous, I guess,—worn out. I wish— (Breaks off).
Rachel (Slowly): It may be that; but she hasn’t been herself this afternoon. I wonder—. Look out! Here she comes!
Tom (In a whisper): Liven her up. (Rachel nods. Mrs. Loving reenters. Both rush to her and lead her to her place at the right end of the table. She smiles and tries to appear cheerful. They sit down, Tom opposite Mrs. Loving and Rachel at the side facing front. Mrs Loving asks grace. Her voice trembles. She helps the children bountifully, herself sparingly. Every once in a while she stops eating and stares blankly into her plate; then, remembering where she is suddenly, looks around with a start and goes on eating. Tom and Rachel appear not to notice her).
Tom: Ma’s “some” cook, isn’t she?
Rachel: Is she! Delmonico’s isn’t in it.
Tom (Presently): Say, Rachel, do you remember that Reynolds boy in the fourth year?
Rachel: Yes. You mean the one who is flat-nosed, freckled, and who squints and sneers?
Tom (Looking at Rachel admiringly): The same.
Rachel (Vehemently): I hate him!
Mrs. Loving: Rachel, you do use such violent language. Why hate him?
Rachel: I do—that’s all.
Tom: Ma, if you saw him just once, you’d understand. No one likes him. But, then, what can you expect? His ​father’s in “quod” doing time for something, I don’t know just what. One of the fellows says he has a real decent mother, though. She never mentions him in any way, shape or form, he says. Hard on her, isn’t it? Bet I’d keep my head shut too;—you’d never get a yap out of me. (Rachel looks up quickly at her mother; Mrs. Loving stiffens perceptibly, but keeps her eyes on her plate. Rachel catches Tom’s eye; silently draws his attention to their mother; and shakes her head warningly at him).
Tom (Continuing hastily and clumsily): Well, anyway, he called me “Nigger” today. If his face isn’t black, his eye is.
Rachel: Good! Oh! Why did you let the other one go?
Tom (Grinning): I knew he said things behind my back; but today he was hopping mad, because I made quarterback. He didn’t!
Rachel: Oh, Tommy! How lovely! Ma dear, did you hear that? (Chants) Our Tommy’s on the team! Our Tommy’s on the team!
Tom (Trying not to appear pleased): Ma dear, what did I say about er—er “capital” enlargements?
Mrs. Loving (Smiling): You’re right, Son.
Tom: I hope you got that “capital,” Rachel. How’s that for Latin knowledge? Eh?
Rachel: I don’t think much of your knowledge, Tommy dear; but (continuing to chant) Our Tommy’s on the team! Our Tommy’s on the team! Our— (Breaks off). I’ve a good mind to kiss you.
Tom (Threateningly): Don’t you dare.
Rachel (Rising and going toward him): I will! I will! I will!
Tom (Rising, too, and dodging her): No, you don’t, young lady. (A tremendous tussle and scuffle ensues).
​Mrs. Loving (Laughing): For Heaven’s sake! children, do stop playing and eat your supper. (They nod brightly at each other behind her back and return smiling to the table).
Rachel (Sticking out her tongue at Tom): I will!
Tom (Mimicking her): You won’t!
Mrs. Loving: Children! (They eat for a time in silence).
Rachel: Ma dear, have you noticed Mary Shaw doesn’t come here much these days?
Mrs. Loving: Why, that’s so, she doesn’t. Have you two quarreled?
Rachel: No, Ma dear. (Uncomfortably). I—think I know the reason—but I don’t like to say, unless I’m certain.
Tom: Well, I know. I’ve seen her lately with those two girls who have just come from the South. Twice she bowed stiffly, and the last time made believe she didn’t see me.
Rachel: Then you think—? Oh! I was afraid it was that.
Tom (Bitterly): Yes—we’re “niggers”—that’s why.
Mrs. Loving (Slowly and sadly): Rachel, that’s one of the things I can’t save you from. I worried considerably about Mary, at first—you do take your friendships so seriously. I knew exactly how it would end. (Pauses). And then I saw that if Mary Shaw didn’t teach you the lesson—some one else would. They don’t want you, dearies, when you and they grow up. You may have everything in your favor—but they don’t dare to like you.
Rachel: I know all that is generally—true but I had hoped that Mary— (Breaks off).
Tom: Well, I guess we can still go on living even if people don’t speak to us. I’ll never bow to her again—that’s certain.
​Mrs. Loving: But, Son, that wouldn’t be polite, if she bowed to you first.
Tom: Can’t help it. I guess I can be blind, too.
Mrs. Loving (Wearily): Well—perhaps you are right—I don’t know. It’s the way I feel about it too—but—but I wish my son always to be a gentleman.
Tom: If being a gentleman means not being a man—I don’t wish to be one.
Rachel: Oh! well, perhaps we’re wrong about Mary—I hope we are. (Sighs). Anyway, let’s forget it. Tommy guess what I’ve got. (Rises, goes out into entryway swiftly, and returns holding up a small bag). Ma dear treated. Guess!
Tom: Ma, you’re a thoroughbred. Well, let’s see—it’s—a dozen dill pickles?
Rachel: Oh! stop fooling.
Tom: I’m not. Tripe?
Rachel: Silly!
Tom: Hog’s jowl?
Rachel: Ugh! Give it up—quarter-back.
Tom: Pig’s feet?
Rachel (In pretended disgust): Oh! Ma dear send him from the table. It’s CANDY!
Tom: Candy? Funny, I never thought of that! And I was just about to say some nice, delicious chitlings. Candy! Well! Well! (Rachel disdainfully carries the candy to her mother, returns to her own seat with the bag and helps herself. She ignores Tom).
Tom (In an aggrieved voice): You see, Ma, how she treats me. (In affected tones) I have a good mind, young lady to punish you, er—er corporeally speaking. Tut! Tut! I have a mind to master thee—I mean—you. Methinks that if I should advance upon you, apply, perchance, two or three digits to your glossy locks and extract—aha!—​say, a strand—you would no more defy me. (He starts to rise).
Mrs. Loving (Quickly and sharply): Rachel! give Tom the candy and stop playing. (Rachel obeys. They eat in silence. The old depression returns. When the candy is all gone, Rachel pushes her chair back, and is just about to rise, when her mother, who is very evidently nerving herself for something, stops her). Just a moment, Rachel. (Pauses, continuing slowly and very seriously). Tom and Rachel! I have been trying to make up my mind for some time whether a certain thing is my duty or not. Today—I have decided it is. You are old enough, now,—and I see you ought to be told. Do you know what day this is? (Both Tom and Rachel have been watching their mother intently). It’s the sixteenth of October. Does that mean anything to either of you?
Tom and Rachel (Wonderingly): No.
Mrs. Loving (Looking at both of them thoughtfully, half to herself): No—I don’t know why it should. (Slowly) Ten years ago—today—your father and your half-brother died.
Tom: I do remember, now, that you told us it was in October.
Rachel (With a sigh): That explains—today.
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel. (Pauses). Do you know—how they—died?
Tom and Rachel: Why, no.
Mrs. Loving: Did it ever strike you as strange—that they—died— the same day?
Tom: Well, yes.
Rachel: We often wondered, Tom and I; but—but somehow we never quite dared to ask you. You—you—always refused to talk about them, you know, Ma dear.
​Mrs. Loving: Did you think—that—perhaps—the reason—I—I—wouldn’t talk about them—was—because, because—I was ashamed—of them? (Tom and Rachel look uncomfortable).
Rachel: Well, Ma dear—we—we—did—wonder.
Mrs. Loving (Questioningly): And you thought?
Rachel (Haltingly): W-e-l-l—
Mrs. Loving (Sharply): Yes?
Tom: Oh! come, now, Rachel, you know we haven’t bothered about it at all. Why should we? We’ve been happy.
Mrs. Loving: But when you have thought—you’ve been ashamed? (Intensely) Have you?
Tom: Now, Ma, aren’t you making a lot out of nothing?
Mrs. Loving (Slowly): No. (Half to herself) You evade—both—of you. You have been ashamed. And I never dreamed until today you could take it this way. How blind—how almost criminally blind, I have been.
Rachel (Tremulously): Oh! Ma dear, don’t! (Tom and Rachel watch their mother anxiously and uncomfortably. Mrs. Loving is very evidently nerving herself for something).
Mrs. Loving (Very slowly, with restrained emotion): Tom—and Rachel!
Tom: Ma!
Rachel: Ma dear! (A tense, breathless pause).
Mrs. Loving (Bracing herself): They—they—were lynched!!
Tom and Rachel (In a whisper): Lynched!
Mrs. Loving (Slowly, laboring under strong but restrained emotion): Yes—by Christian people—in a Christian land. We found out afterwards they were all church members in good standing—the best people. (A silence). Your ​father was a man among men. He was a fanatic. He was a Saint!
Tom (Breathing with difficulty): Ma—can you—will you—tell us—about it?
Mrs. Loving: I believe it to be my duty. (A silence). When I married your father I was a widow. My little George was seven years old. From the very beginning he worshiped your father. He followed him around—just like a little dog. All children were like that with him. I myself have never seen anybody like him. “Big” seems to fit him better than any other word. He was big-bodied—big-souled. His loves were big and his hates. You can imagine, then, how the wrongs of the Negro—ate into his soul. (Pauses). He was utterly fearless. (A silence). He edited and owned, for several years, a small negro paper. In it he said a great many daring things. I used to plead with him to be more careful. I was always afraid for him. For a long time, nothing happened—he was too important to the community. And then—one night—ten years ago—a mob made up of the respectable people in the town lynched an innocent black man—and what was worse—they knew him to be innocent. A white man was guilty. I never saw your father so wrought up over anything: he couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep; he brooded night and day over it. And then—realizing fully the great risk he was running, although I begged him not to—and all his friends also—he deliberately and calmly went to work and published a most terrific denunciation of that mob. The old prophets in the Bible were not more terrible than he. A day or two later, he received an anonymous letter, very evidently from an educated man, calling upon him to retract his words in the next issue. If he refused his life was threatened. The next week’s issue contained an arraign​ment as frightful, if not more so, than the previous one. Each word was white-hot, searing. That night, some dozen masked men came to our house.
Rachel (Moaning): Oh, Ma dear! Ma dear!
Mrs. Loving (Too absorbed to hear): We were not asleep—your father and I. They broke down the front door and made their way to our bedroom. Your father kissed me—and took up his revolver. It was always loaded. They broke down the door. (A silence. She continues slowly and quietly) I tried to shut my eyes—I could not. Four masked men fell—they did not move any more—after a little. (Pauses). Your father was finally overpowered and dragged out. In the hall—my little seventeen-year-old George tried to rescue him. Your father begged him not to interfere. He paid no attention. It ended in their dragging them both out. (Pauses). My little George—was—a man! (Controls herself with an effort). He never made an outcry. His last words to me were: “Ma, I am glad to go with Father.” I could only nod to him. (Pauses). While they were dragging them down the steps, I crept into the room where you were. You were both asleep. Rachel, I remember, was smiling. I knelt down by you—and covered my ears with my hands—and waited. I could not pray—I couldn’t for a long time—afterwards. (A silence). It was very still when I finally uncovered my ears. The only sounds were the faint rustle of leaves and the “tap-tapping of the twig of a tree” against the window. I hear it still—sometimes in my dreams. It was the tree—where they were. (A silence). While I had knelt there waiting—I had made up my mind what to do. I dressed myself and then I woke you both up and dressed you. (Pauses). We set forth. It was a black, still night. Alternately dragging you along and carrying you—I walked five miles to the ​house of some friends. They took us in, and we remained there until I had seen my dead laid comfortably at rest. They lent me money to come North—I couldn’t bring you up—in the South. (A silence). Always remember this: There never lived anywhere—or at any time—any two whiter or more beautiful souls. God gave me one for a husband and one for a son and I am proud. (Brokenly) You—must—be—proud—too. (A long silence. Mrs. Loving bows her head in her hands. Tom controls himself with an effort. Rachel creeps softly to her mother, kneels beside her and lifts the hem of her dress to her lips. She does not dare touch her. She adores her with her eyes).
Mrs. Loving (Presently raising her head and glancing at the clock): Tom, it’s time, now, for you to go to work. Rachel and I will finish up here.
Tom (Still laboring under great emotion goes out into the entryway and comes back and stands in the doorway with his cap. He twirls it around and around nervously): I want you to know, Ma, before I go—how—how proud I am. Why, I didn’t believe two people could be like that—and live. And then to find out that one—was your own father—and one—your own brother.—It’s wonderful! I’m—not much yet, Ma, but—I’ve—I’ve just got to be something now. (Breaks off). (His face becomes distorted with passion and hatred). When I think—when I think—of those devils with white skins—living somewhere today—living and happy—I—see—red! I—I—goodbye! (Rushes out, the door bangs).
Mrs. Loving (Half to herself): I was afraid—of just that. I wonder—if I did the wise thing—after all.
Rachel (With a gesture infinitely tender, puts her arms around her mother): Yes, Ma dear, you did. And, hereafter, Tom and I share and share alike with you. To ​think, Ma dear, of ten years of this all alone. It’s wicked! (A short silence).
Mrs. Loving: And, Rachel, about that dear, little boy, Jimmy.
Rachel: Now, Ma dear, tell me tomorrow. You’ve stood enough for one day.
Mrs. Loving: No, it’s better over and done with—all at once. If I had seen that dear child suddenly any other day than this—I might have borne it better. When he lifted his little face to me—and smiled—for a moment—I thought it was the end—of all things. Rachel, he is the image of my boy—my George!
Rachel: Ma dear!
Mrs. Loving: And, Rachel—it will hurt—to see him again.
Rachel: I understand, Ma dear. (A silence. Suddenly) Ma dear, I am beginning to see—to understand—so much. (Slowly and thoughtfully) Ten years ago, all things being equal, Jimmy might have been—George? Isn’t that so?
Mrs. Loving: Why—yes, if I understand you.
Rachel: I guess that doesn’t sound very clear. It’s only getting clear to me, little by little. Do you mind my thinking out loud to you?
Mrs. Loving: No, chickabiddy.
Rachel: If Jimmy went South now—and grew up—he might be—a George?
Mrs. Loving: Yes.
Rachel: Then, the South is full of tens, hundreds, thousands of little boys, who, one day may be—and some of them with certainty—Georges?
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel.
Rachel: And the little babies, the dear, little, helpless babies, being born today—now—and those who will be, tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come—have that sooner or later to look forward to? They will laugh and ​play and sing and be happy and grow up, perhaps, and be ambitious—just for that?
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel.
Rachel: Then, everywhere, everywhere, throughout the South, there are hundreds of dark mothers who live in fear, terrible, suffocating fear, whose rest by night is broken, and whose joy by day in their babies on their hearts is three parts—pain. Oh, I know this is true—for this is the way I should feel, if I were little Jimmy’s mother. How horrible! Why—it would be more merciful—to strangle the little things at birth. And so this nation—this white Christian nation has deliberately set its curse upon the most beautiful—the most holy thing in life—motherhood! Why—it—makes—you doubt—God!
Mrs. Loving: Oh, hush! little girl. Hush!
Rachel (Suddenly with a great cry}: Why, Ma dear, you know. You were a mother, George’s mother. So, this is what it means. Oh, Ma dear! Ma dear! (Faints in her mother’s arms).