Rachel: What is the matter with that child? It’s—it’s heartbreaking to see her.Mrs. Lane: I understand how you feel,—I don’t feel anything, myself, any more. (A pause). My husband and I are poor, and we’re ugly and we’re black. Ethel looks like her father more than she does like me. We live in 55th Street—near the railroad. It’s a poor neighborhood, but the rent’s cheap. My husband is a porter in a store; and, to help out, I’m a caretaker. (Pauses). I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. We had a nice little home—and the three of us were happy. Now we’ve got to move.Rachel: Move! Why?Mrs. Lane: It’s Ethel. I put her in school this September. She stayed two weeks. (Pointing to Ethel) That’s the result.Rachel(In horror): You mean—that just two weeks—in school—did that?Mrs. Lane: Yes. Ethel never had a sick day in her life—before. (A brief pause). I took her to the doctor at the end of the two weeks. He says she’s a nervous wreck.Rachel: But what could they have done to her?Mrs. Lane(Laughs grimly and mirthlessly): I’ll tell you what they did the first day. Ethel is naturally sensitive and backward. She’s not assertive. The teacher saw that, and, after I had left, told her to sit in a seat in the rear of the class. She was alone there—in a corner. The children, immediately feeling there was something wrong with Ethel because of the teacher’s attitude, turned and stared at her. When the teacher’s back was turned they whispered about her, pointed their fingers at her and tittered. The teacher divided the class into two parts, divisions, I believe, they are called. She forgot all about Ethel, of course, until the last minute, and then, looking back, said sharply: “That little girl there may join thisdivision,” meaning the group of pupils standing around her. Ethel naturally moved slowly. The teacher called her sulky and told her to lose a part of her recess. When Ethel came up—the children drew away from her in every direction. She was left standing alone. The teacher then proceeded to give a lesson about kindness to animals. Funny, isn’t it,kindnesstoanimals? The children forgot Ethel in the excitement of talking about their pets. Presently, the teacher turned to Ethel and said disagreeably: “Have you a pet?” Ethel said, “Yes,” very low. “Come, speak up, you sulky child, what is it?” Ethel said: “A blind puppy.” They all laughed, the teacher and all. Strange, isn’t it, but Ethel loves that puppy. She spoke up: “It’s mean to laugh at a little blind puppy. I’m glad he’s blind.” This remark brought forth more laughter. “Why are you glad,” the teacher asked curiously. Ethel refused to say. (Pauses). When I asked her why, do you know what she told me? “If he saw me, he might not love me any more.” (A pause). Did I tell you that Ethel is only seven years old?Rachel(Drawing her breath sharply): Oh! I didn’t believe any one could be as cruel as that—to a little child.Mrs. Lane: It isn’t very pleasant, is it? When the teacher found out that Ethel wouldn’t answer, she said severely: “Take your seat!” At recess, all the children went out. Ethel could hear them playing and laughing and shrieking. Even the teacher went too. She was made to sit there all alone—in that big room—because God made her ugly—and black. (Pauses). When the recess was half over the teacher came back. “You may go now,” she said coldly. Ethel didn’t stir. “Did you hear me?” “Yes’m.” “Why don’t you obey?” “I don’t want to go out, please.” “You don’t, don’t you, you stubborn child! Go immediately!” Ethel went. She stood by the school steps.No one spoke to her. The children near her moved away in every direction. They stopped playing, many of them, and watched her. They stared as only children can stare. Some began whispering about her. Presently one child came up and ran her hand roughly over Ethel’s face. She looked at her hand and Ethel’s face and ran screaming back to the others, “It won’t come off! See!” Other children followed the first child’s example. Then one boy spoke up loudly: “I know what she is, she’s a nigger!” Many took up the cry. God or the devil interfered—the bell rang. The children filed in. One boy boldly called her “Nigger!” before the teacher. She said, “That isn’t nice,”—but she smiled at the boy. Things went on about the same for the rest of the day. At the end of school, Ethel put on her hat and coat—the teacher made her hang them at a distance from the other pupils’ wraps; and started for home. Quite a crowd escorted her. They called her “Nigger!” all the way. ImadeEthel go the next day. I complained to the authorities. They treated me lightly. I was determined not to let them force my child out of school. At the end of two weeks—I had to take her out.Rachel(Brokenly): Why,—I never—in all my life—heard anything—so—pitiful.Mrs. Lane: Did you ever go to school here?Rachel: Yes. I was made to feel my color—but I never had an experience like that.Mrs. Lane: How many years ago were you in the graded schools?Rachel: Oh!—around ten.Mrs. Lane(Laughs grimly): Ten years! Every year things are getting worse. Last year wasn’t as bad as this. (Pauses.) So they treat the children all right in this school?Rachel: Yes! Yes! I know that.Mrs. Lane: I can’t afford to take this flat here, but I’ll take it. I’m going to have Ethel educated. Although, when you think of it,—it’s all rather useless—this education! What are our children going to do with it, when they get it? We strive and save and sacrifice to educate them—and the whole time—down underneath, we know—they’ll have no chance.Rachel(Sadly): Yes, that’s true, all right.—God seems to have forgotten us.Mrs. Lane: God! It’s all a lie about God. I know.—This fall I sent Ethel to a white Sunday-school near us. She received the same treatment there she did in the day school. Her being there, nearly broke up the school. At the end, the superintendent called her to him and asked her if she didn’t know of some nice colored Sunday-school. He told her she must feel out of place, and uncomfortable there. That’s your Church of God!Rachel: Oh! how unspeakably brutal. (Controls herself with an effort; after a pause) Have you any other children?Mrs. Lane(Dryly): Hardly! If I had another—I’d kill it. It’s kinder. (Rising presently) Well, I must go, now. Thank you, for your information—and for listening. (Suddenly) You aren’t married, are you?Rachel: No.Mrs. Lane: Don’t marry—that’s my advice. Come, Ethel. (Ethel gets up and puts down the things in her lap, carefully upon her chair. She goes in a hurried, timid way to her mother and clutches her hand). Say good-bye to the lady.Ethel(Faintly): Good-bye.Rachel(Kneeling by the little girl—a beautiful smile on her face) Dear little girl, won’t you let me kiss yougood-bye? I love little girls. (The child hides behind her mother; continuing brokenly) Oh!—no child—ever did—that to me—before!Mrs. Lane(In a gentler voice): Perhaps, when we move in here, the first of the month, things may be better. Thank you, again. Good-morning! You don’t belie your name. (All three go into the vestibule. The outside door opens and closes. Rachel as though dazed and stricken returns. She sits in a chair, leans forward, and clasping her hands loosely between her knees, stares at the chair with the apple on it where Ethel Lane has sat. She does not move for some time. Then she gets up and goes to the window in the rear center and sits there. She breathes in the air deeply and then goes to the sewing-machine and begins to sew on something she is making. Presently her feet slow down on the pedals; she stops; and begins brooding again. After a short pause, she gets up and begins to pace up and down slowly, mechanically, her head bent forward. The sharp ringing of the electric bell breaks in upon this. Rachel starts and goes slowly into the vestibule. She is heard speaking dully through the tube).Rachel: Yes!—All right! Bring it up! (Presently she returns with a long flower box. She opens it listlessly at the table. Within are six, beautiful crimson rosebuds with long stems. Rachel looks at the name on the card. She sinks down slowly on her knee and leans her head against the table. She sighs wearily) Oh! John! John!—What are we to do?—I’m—I’m—afraid! Everywhere—it is the same thing. My mother! My little brother! Little, black, crushed Ethel! (In a whisper) Oh! God! You who I have been taught to believe are so good, so beautiful how could—You permit—these—things? (Pauses, raises her head and sees the rosebuds. Her face softens and grows beautiful, very sweetly).Dear little rosebuds—you—make me think—of sleeping, curled up, happy babies. Dear beautiful, little rosebuds! (Pauses; goes on thoughtfully to the rosebuds) When—I look—at you—I believe—God is beautiful. He who can make a little exquisite thing like this, and this can’t be cruel. Oh! He can’t mean me—to give up—love—and the hope of little children. (There is the sound of a small hand knocking at the outer door. Rachel smiles). My Jimmy! It must be twelve o’clock. (Rises). I didn’t dream it was so late. (Starts for the vestibule). Oh! the world can’t be so bad. I don’t believe it. I won’t. Imustforget that little girl. My little Jimmy is happy—and today John—sent me beautiful rosebuds. Oh, there are lovely things, yet. (Goes into the vestibule. A child’s eager cry is heard; and Rachel carrying Jimmy in her arms comes in. He has both arms about her neck and is hugging her. With him in her arms, she sits down in the armchair at the right front).Rachel: Well, honey, how was school today?Jimmy(Sobering a trifle): All right, Ma Rachel. (Suddenly sees the roses) Oh! look at the pretty flowers. Why, Ma Rachel, you forgot to put them in water. They’ll die.Rachel: Well, so they will. Hop down this minute, and I’ll put them in right away. (Gathers up box and flowers and goes into the kitchenette. Jimmy climbs back into the chair. He looks thoughtful and serious. Rachel comes back with the buds in a tall, glass vase. She puts the fern on top of the piano, and places the vase in the centre of the table). There, honey, that’s better, isn’t it? Aren’t they lovely?Jimmy: Yes, that’s lots better. Now they won’t die, will they? Rosebuds are just like little “chilyun,” aren’t they, Ma Rachel? If you are good to them, they’ll grow up into lovely roses, won’t they? And if you hurt them,they’ll die. Ma Rachel do you think all peoples are kind to little rosebuds?Rachel(Watching Jimmy shortly): Why, of course. Who could hurt little children? Who would have the heart to do such a thing?Jimmy: If you hurt them, it would be lots kinder, wouldn’t it, to kill them all at once, and not a little bit and a little bit?Rachel(Sharply): Why, honey boy, why are you talking like this?Jimmy: Ma Rachel, what is a “Nigger”?
Rachel: What is the matter with that child? It’s—it’s heartbreaking to see her.
Mrs. Lane: I understand how you feel,—I don’t feel anything, myself, any more. (A pause). My husband and I are poor, and we’re ugly and we’re black. Ethel looks like her father more than she does like me. We live in 55th Street—near the railroad. It’s a poor neighborhood, but the rent’s cheap. My husband is a porter in a store; and, to help out, I’m a caretaker. (Pauses). I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. We had a nice little home—and the three of us were happy. Now we’ve got to move.
Rachel: Move! Why?
Mrs. Lane: It’s Ethel. I put her in school this September. She stayed two weeks. (Pointing to Ethel) That’s the result.
Rachel(In horror): You mean—that just two weeks—in school—did that?
Mrs. Lane: Yes. Ethel never had a sick day in her life—before. (A brief pause). I took her to the doctor at the end of the two weeks. He says she’s a nervous wreck.
Rachel: But what could they have done to her?
Mrs. Lane(Laughs grimly and mirthlessly): I’ll tell you what they did the first day. Ethel is naturally sensitive and backward. She’s not assertive. The teacher saw that, and, after I had left, told her to sit in a seat in the rear of the class. She was alone there—in a corner. The children, immediately feeling there was something wrong with Ethel because of the teacher’s attitude, turned and stared at her. When the teacher’s back was turned they whispered about her, pointed their fingers at her and tittered. The teacher divided the class into two parts, divisions, I believe, they are called. She forgot all about Ethel, of course, until the last minute, and then, looking back, said sharply: “That little girl there may join thisdivision,” meaning the group of pupils standing around her. Ethel naturally moved slowly. The teacher called her sulky and told her to lose a part of her recess. When Ethel came up—the children drew away from her in every direction. She was left standing alone. The teacher then proceeded to give a lesson about kindness to animals. Funny, isn’t it,kindnesstoanimals? The children forgot Ethel in the excitement of talking about their pets. Presently, the teacher turned to Ethel and said disagreeably: “Have you a pet?” Ethel said, “Yes,” very low. “Come, speak up, you sulky child, what is it?” Ethel said: “A blind puppy.” They all laughed, the teacher and all. Strange, isn’t it, but Ethel loves that puppy. She spoke up: “It’s mean to laugh at a little blind puppy. I’m glad he’s blind.” This remark brought forth more laughter. “Why are you glad,” the teacher asked curiously. Ethel refused to say. (Pauses). When I asked her why, do you know what she told me? “If he saw me, he might not love me any more.” (A pause). Did I tell you that Ethel is only seven years old?
Rachel(Drawing her breath sharply): Oh! I didn’t believe any one could be as cruel as that—to a little child.
Mrs. Lane: It isn’t very pleasant, is it? When the teacher found out that Ethel wouldn’t answer, she said severely: “Take your seat!” At recess, all the children went out. Ethel could hear them playing and laughing and shrieking. Even the teacher went too. She was made to sit there all alone—in that big room—because God made her ugly—and black. (Pauses). When the recess was half over the teacher came back. “You may go now,” she said coldly. Ethel didn’t stir. “Did you hear me?” “Yes’m.” “Why don’t you obey?” “I don’t want to go out, please.” “You don’t, don’t you, you stubborn child! Go immediately!” Ethel went. She stood by the school steps.No one spoke to her. The children near her moved away in every direction. They stopped playing, many of them, and watched her. They stared as only children can stare. Some began whispering about her. Presently one child came up and ran her hand roughly over Ethel’s face. She looked at her hand and Ethel’s face and ran screaming back to the others, “It won’t come off! See!” Other children followed the first child’s example. Then one boy spoke up loudly: “I know what she is, she’s a nigger!” Many took up the cry. God or the devil interfered—the bell rang. The children filed in. One boy boldly called her “Nigger!” before the teacher. She said, “That isn’t nice,”—but she smiled at the boy. Things went on about the same for the rest of the day. At the end of school, Ethel put on her hat and coat—the teacher made her hang them at a distance from the other pupils’ wraps; and started for home. Quite a crowd escorted her. They called her “Nigger!” all the way. ImadeEthel go the next day. I complained to the authorities. They treated me lightly. I was determined not to let them force my child out of school. At the end of two weeks—I had to take her out.
Rachel(Brokenly): Why,—I never—in all my life—heard anything—so—pitiful.
Mrs. Lane: Did you ever go to school here?
Rachel: Yes. I was made to feel my color—but I never had an experience like that.
Mrs. Lane: How many years ago were you in the graded schools?
Rachel: Oh!—around ten.
Mrs. Lane(Laughs grimly): Ten years! Every year things are getting worse. Last year wasn’t as bad as this. (Pauses.) So they treat the children all right in this school?
Rachel: Yes! Yes! I know that.
Mrs. Lane: I can’t afford to take this flat here, but I’ll take it. I’m going to have Ethel educated. Although, when you think of it,—it’s all rather useless—this education! What are our children going to do with it, when they get it? We strive and save and sacrifice to educate them—and the whole time—down underneath, we know—they’ll have no chance.
Rachel(Sadly): Yes, that’s true, all right.—God seems to have forgotten us.
Mrs. Lane: God! It’s all a lie about God. I know.—This fall I sent Ethel to a white Sunday-school near us. She received the same treatment there she did in the day school. Her being there, nearly broke up the school. At the end, the superintendent called her to him and asked her if she didn’t know of some nice colored Sunday-school. He told her she must feel out of place, and uncomfortable there. That’s your Church of God!
Rachel: Oh! how unspeakably brutal. (Controls herself with an effort; after a pause) Have you any other children?
Mrs. Lane(Dryly): Hardly! If I had another—I’d kill it. It’s kinder. (Rising presently) Well, I must go, now. Thank you, for your information—and for listening. (Suddenly) You aren’t married, are you?
Rachel: No.
Mrs. Lane: Don’t marry—that’s my advice. Come, Ethel. (Ethel gets up and puts down the things in her lap, carefully upon her chair. She goes in a hurried, timid way to her mother and clutches her hand). Say good-bye to the lady.
Ethel(Faintly): Good-bye.
Rachel(Kneeling by the little girl—a beautiful smile on her face) Dear little girl, won’t you let me kiss yougood-bye? I love little girls. (The child hides behind her mother; continuing brokenly) Oh!—no child—ever did—that to me—before!
Mrs. Lane(In a gentler voice): Perhaps, when we move in here, the first of the month, things may be better. Thank you, again. Good-morning! You don’t belie your name. (All three go into the vestibule. The outside door opens and closes. Rachel as though dazed and stricken returns. She sits in a chair, leans forward, and clasping her hands loosely between her knees, stares at the chair with the apple on it where Ethel Lane has sat. She does not move for some time. Then she gets up and goes to the window in the rear center and sits there. She breathes in the air deeply and then goes to the sewing-machine and begins to sew on something she is making. Presently her feet slow down on the pedals; she stops; and begins brooding again. After a short pause, she gets up and begins to pace up and down slowly, mechanically, her head bent forward. The sharp ringing of the electric bell breaks in upon this. Rachel starts and goes slowly into the vestibule. She is heard speaking dully through the tube).
Rachel: Yes!—All right! Bring it up! (Presently she returns with a long flower box. She opens it listlessly at the table. Within are six, beautiful crimson rosebuds with long stems. Rachel looks at the name on the card. She sinks down slowly on her knee and leans her head against the table. She sighs wearily) Oh! John! John!—What are we to do?—I’m—I’m—afraid! Everywhere—it is the same thing. My mother! My little brother! Little, black, crushed Ethel! (In a whisper) Oh! God! You who I have been taught to believe are so good, so beautiful how could—You permit—these—things? (Pauses, raises her head and sees the rosebuds. Her face softens and grows beautiful, very sweetly).Dear little rosebuds—you—make me think—of sleeping, curled up, happy babies. Dear beautiful, little rosebuds! (Pauses; goes on thoughtfully to the rosebuds) When—I look—at you—I believe—God is beautiful. He who can make a little exquisite thing like this, and this can’t be cruel. Oh! He can’t mean me—to give up—love—and the hope of little children. (There is the sound of a small hand knocking at the outer door. Rachel smiles). My Jimmy! It must be twelve o’clock. (Rises). I didn’t dream it was so late. (Starts for the vestibule). Oh! the world can’t be so bad. I don’t believe it. I won’t. Imustforget that little girl. My little Jimmy is happy—and today John—sent me beautiful rosebuds. Oh, there are lovely things, yet. (Goes into the vestibule. A child’s eager cry is heard; and Rachel carrying Jimmy in her arms comes in. He has both arms about her neck and is hugging her. With him in her arms, she sits down in the armchair at the right front).
Rachel: Well, honey, how was school today?
Jimmy(Sobering a trifle): All right, Ma Rachel. (Suddenly sees the roses) Oh! look at the pretty flowers. Why, Ma Rachel, you forgot to put them in water. They’ll die.
Rachel: Well, so they will. Hop down this minute, and I’ll put them in right away. (Gathers up box and flowers and goes into the kitchenette. Jimmy climbs back into the chair. He looks thoughtful and serious. Rachel comes back with the buds in a tall, glass vase. She puts the fern on top of the piano, and places the vase in the centre of the table). There, honey, that’s better, isn’t it? Aren’t they lovely?
Jimmy: Yes, that’s lots better. Now they won’t die, will they? Rosebuds are just like little “chilyun,” aren’t they, Ma Rachel? If you are good to them, they’ll grow up into lovely roses, won’t they? And if you hurt them,they’ll die. Ma Rachel do you think all peoples are kind to little rosebuds?
Rachel(Watching Jimmy shortly): Why, of course. Who could hurt little children? Who would have the heart to do such a thing?
Jimmy: If you hurt them, it would be lots kinder, wouldn’t it, to kill them all at once, and not a little bit and a little bit?
Rachel(Sharply): Why, honey boy, why are you talking like this?
Jimmy: Ma Rachel, what is a “Nigger”?
(Rachel recoils as though she had been struck).
Rachel: Honey boy, why—why do you ask that?Jimmy: Some big boys called me that when I came out of school just now. They said: “Look at the little nigger!” And they laughed. One of them runned, no ranned, after me and threw stones; and they all kept calling “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!” One stone struck me hard in the back, and it hurt awful bad; but I didn’t cry, Ma Rachel. I wouldn’t let them make me cry. The stone hurts me there, Ma Rachel; but what they called me hurts and hurts here. What is a “Nigger,” Ma Rachel?Rachel(Controlling herself with a tremendous effort. At last she sweeps down upon him and hugs and kisses him): Why, honey boy, those boys didn’t mean anything. Silly, little, honey boy! They’re rough, that’s all. Howcouldthey mean anything?Jimmy: You’re only saying that, Ma Rachel, so I won’t be hurt. I know. It wouldn’t ache here like it does—if they didn’t mean something.Rachel(Abruptly): Where’s Mary, honey?Jimmy: She’s in her flat. She came in just after I did.Rachel: Well, honey, I’m going to give you two big cookies and two to take to Mary; and you may stay in there andplay with her, till I get your lunch ready. Won’t that be jolly?Jimmy(Brightening a little): Why, you never give me but one at a time. You’ll give me two?—One? Two? (Rachel gets the cookies and brings them to him. Jimmy climbs down from the chair). Shoo! now, little honey boy. See how many laughs you can make for me, before I come after you. Hear? Have a good time, now. (Jimmy starts for the door quickly; but he begins to slow down. His face gets long and serious again. Rachel watches him).Rachel(Jumping at him): Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here quickly, little chicken. (She follows him out. The outer door opens and shuts. Presently she returns. She looks old and worn and grey; calmly. Pauses). First, it’s little, black Ethel—and then’s it’s Jimmy. Tomorrow, it will be some other little child. The blight—sooner or later—strikes all. My little Jimmy, only seven years old poisoned! (Through the open window comes the laughter of little children at play. Rachel, shuddering, covers her ears). And once I said, centuries ago, it must have been: “How can life be so terrible, when there are little children in the world?” Terrible! Terrible! (In a whisper, slowly) That’s the reason it is so terrible. (The laughter reaches her again; this time she listens). And, suddenly, some day, from out of the black, the blight shall descend, and shall still forever—the laughter on those little lips, and in those little hearts. (Pauses thoughtfully). And the loveliest thing—almost, that ever happened to me, that beautiful voice, in my dream, those beautiful words: “Rachel, you are to be the mother to little children.” (Pauses, then slowly and with dawning surprise). Why, God, you were making a mock of me; you were laughing at me.I didn’t believeGod could laughat our sufferings, but He can. We are accursed, accursed! We have nothing, absolutely nothing. (Strong’s rosebuds attract her attention. She goes over to them, puts her hand out as if to touch them, and then shakes her head, very sweetly) No, little rosebuds, I may not touch you. Dear, little, baby rosebuds,—I am accursed. (Gradually her whole form stiffens, she breathes deeply; at last slowly). You God!—You terrible, laughing God! Listen! I swear—and may my soul be damned to all eternity, if I do break this oath—I swear—that no child of mine shall ever lie upon my breast, for I will not have it rise up, in the terrible days that are to be—and call me cursed. (A pause, very wistfully; questioningly). Never to know the loveliest thing in all the world—the feel of a little head, the touch of little hands, the beautiful utter dependence—of a little child? (With sudden frenzy) You can laugh, Oh God! Well, so can I. (Bursts into terrible, racking laughter) But I can be kinder than You. (Fiercely she snatches the rosebuds from the vase, grasps them roughly, tears each head from the stem, and grinds it under her feet. The vase goes over with a crash; the water drips unheeded over the table-cloth and floor). If I kill, You Mighty God, I kill at once—I do not torture. (Falls face downward on the floor. The laughter of the children shrills loudly through the window).
Rachel: Honey boy, why—why do you ask that?
Jimmy: Some big boys called me that when I came out of school just now. They said: “Look at the little nigger!” And they laughed. One of them runned, no ranned, after me and threw stones; and they all kept calling “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!” One stone struck me hard in the back, and it hurt awful bad; but I didn’t cry, Ma Rachel. I wouldn’t let them make me cry. The stone hurts me there, Ma Rachel; but what they called me hurts and hurts here. What is a “Nigger,” Ma Rachel?
Rachel(Controlling herself with a tremendous effort. At last she sweeps down upon him and hugs and kisses him): Why, honey boy, those boys didn’t mean anything. Silly, little, honey boy! They’re rough, that’s all. Howcouldthey mean anything?
Jimmy: You’re only saying that, Ma Rachel, so I won’t be hurt. I know. It wouldn’t ache here like it does—if they didn’t mean something.
Rachel(Abruptly): Where’s Mary, honey?
Jimmy: She’s in her flat. She came in just after I did.
Rachel: Well, honey, I’m going to give you two big cookies and two to take to Mary; and you may stay in there andplay with her, till I get your lunch ready. Won’t that be jolly?
Jimmy(Brightening a little): Why, you never give me but one at a time. You’ll give me two?—One? Two? (Rachel gets the cookies and brings them to him. Jimmy climbs down from the chair). Shoo! now, little honey boy. See how many laughs you can make for me, before I come after you. Hear? Have a good time, now. (Jimmy starts for the door quickly; but he begins to slow down. His face gets long and serious again. Rachel watches him).
Rachel(Jumping at him): Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here quickly, little chicken. (She follows him out. The outer door opens and shuts. Presently she returns. She looks old and worn and grey; calmly. Pauses). First, it’s little, black Ethel—and then’s it’s Jimmy. Tomorrow, it will be some other little child. The blight—sooner or later—strikes all. My little Jimmy, only seven years old poisoned! (Through the open window comes the laughter of little children at play. Rachel, shuddering, covers her ears). And once I said, centuries ago, it must have been: “How can life be so terrible, when there are little children in the world?” Terrible! Terrible! (In a whisper, slowly) That’s the reason it is so terrible. (The laughter reaches her again; this time she listens). And, suddenly, some day, from out of the black, the blight shall descend, and shall still forever—the laughter on those little lips, and in those little hearts. (Pauses thoughtfully). And the loveliest thing—almost, that ever happened to me, that beautiful voice, in my dream, those beautiful words: “Rachel, you are to be the mother to little children.” (Pauses, then slowly and with dawning surprise). Why, God, you were making a mock of me; you were laughing at me.I didn’t believeGod could laughat our sufferings, but He can. We are accursed, accursed! We have nothing, absolutely nothing. (Strong’s rosebuds attract her attention. She goes over to them, puts her hand out as if to touch them, and then shakes her head, very sweetly) No, little rosebuds, I may not touch you. Dear, little, baby rosebuds,—I am accursed. (Gradually her whole form stiffens, she breathes deeply; at last slowly). You God!—You terrible, laughing God! Listen! I swear—and may my soul be damned to all eternity, if I do break this oath—I swear—that no child of mine shall ever lie upon my breast, for I will not have it rise up, in the terrible days that are to be—and call me cursed. (A pause, very wistfully; questioningly). Never to know the loveliest thing in all the world—the feel of a little head, the touch of little hands, the beautiful utter dependence—of a little child? (With sudden frenzy) You can laugh, Oh God! Well, so can I. (Bursts into terrible, racking laughter) But I can be kinder than You. (Fiercely she snatches the rosebuds from the vase, grasps them roughly, tears each head from the stem, and grinds it under her feet. The vase goes over with a crash; the water drips unheeded over the table-cloth and floor). If I kill, You Mighty God, I kill at once—I do not torture. (Falls face downward on the floor. The laughter of the children shrills loudly through the window).
ACT III