Rachel: A Play in Three Acts

by Angelina Weld Grimké

(He leaves her and goes over to the fireplace, and stands looking down into it for some little time. Rachel, little by little, becomes calmer. Strong returns and sits beside her again. She doesn’t move. He smoothes her hair back gently, and kisses her forehead—and then, slowly, her mouth, she does not resist; simply sits there, with shut eyes, inert, limp).

Strong: Rachel!—(Pauses). There is a little flat on 43rd Street. It faces south and overlooks a little park. Do you remember it?—it’s on the top floor?—Once I remember your saying—you liked it. That was over a year ago. That same day—I rented it. I’ve never lived there. No one knows about it—not even my mother. It’s completely furnished now—and waiting—do you know for whom? Every single thing in it, I’ve bought myself—even to the pins on the little bird’s-eye maple dresser. It has been the happiest year I have ever known. I furnished it—one room at a time. It’s the prettiest, the most homelike little flat I’ve ever seen. (Very low) Everything there—breathes love. Do you know for whom it is waiting? On the sitting-room floor is a beautiful, Turkish rug—red, and blue and gold. It’s soft—and rich—and do you know for whose little feet it is waiting? There are delicate curtains at the windows and a bookcase full of friendly, eager, little books.—Do you know for whom they are waiting? There are comfortable leather chairs, just the right size, and a beautiful piano—that I leave open—sometimes, and lovely pictures of Madonnas. Do you know for whom they are waiting? There is an open fireplace with logs of wood, all carefully piled on gleaming andirons—and waiting. There is a bellows and a pair of shining tongs—waiting. And in the kitchenette painted blue and white, and smelling sweet with paint is everything: bright pots and pans and kettles, and blue and white enamel-ware, and all kinds of knives and forks and spoons—and on the door—a roller-towel. Little girl, do you know for whom they are all waiting? And somewhere—there’s a big, strong man—with broad shoulders. And he’s willing and anxious to do anything—everything, and he’s waiting very patiently. Little girl, is it to be—yes or no?

Rachel (During Strong’s speech life has come flooding back to her. Her eyes are shining; her face, eager. For a moment she is beautifully happy). Oh! you’re too good to me and mine, John. I—didn’t dream any one—could be—so good. (Leans forward and puts his big hand against her cheek and kisses it shyly).

Strong (Quietly): Is it—yes—or no, little girl?

Rachel (Feverishly, gripping his hands): Oh, yes! yes! yes! and take me quickly, John. Take me before I can think any more. You mustn’t let me think, John. And you’ll be good to me, won’t you? Every second of every minute, of every hour, of every day, you’ll have me in your thoughts, won’t you? And you’ll be with me every minute that you can? And, John, John!—you’ll keep away the weeping of my little children. You won’t let me hear it, will you? You’ll make me forget everything—everything—won’t you?—Life is so short, John. (Shivers and then fearfully and slowly) And eternity so—long. (Feverishly again) And, John, after I am dead—promise me, promise me you’ll love me more. (Shivers again). I’ll need love then. Oh! I’ll need it. (Suddenly there comes to their ears the sound of a child’s weeping. It is monotonous, hopeless, terribly afraid. Rachel recoils). Oh! John!—Listen!—It’s my boy, again.—I—John—I’ll be back in a little while. (Goes swiftly to the door in the rear, pauses and looks back. The weeping continues. Her eyes are tragic. Slowly she kisses her hand to him and disappears. John stands where she has left him looking down. The weeping stops. Presently Rachel appears in the doorway. She is haggard, and grey. She does not enter the room. She speaks as one dead might speak—tonelessly, slowly).

Rachel: Do you wish to know why Jimmy is crying?

Strong: Yes.

Rachel: I am twenty-two—and I’m old; you’re thirty-two—and you’re old; Tom’s twenty-three—and he is old. Ma dear’s sixty—and she said once she is much older than that. She is. We are all blighted; we are all accursed—all of us—, everywhere, we whose skins are dark—our lives blasted by the white man’s prejudice. (Pauses) And my little Jimmy—seven years old, that’s all—is blighted too. In a year or two, at best, he will be made old by suffering. (Pauses): One week ago, today, some white boys, older and larger than my little Jimmy, as he was leaving the school—called him “Nigger”! They chased him through the streets calling him, “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!” One boy threw stones at him. There is still a bruise on his little back where one struck him. That will get well; but they bruised his soul—and that—will never—get well. He asked me what “Nigger” meant. I made light of the whole thing, laughed it off. He went to his little playmates, and very naturally asked them. The oldest of them is nine!—and they knew, poor little things—and they told him. (Pauses). For the last couple of nights he has been dreaming—about these boys. And he always awakes—in the dark—afraid—afraid—of the now—and the future—I have seen that look of deadly fear—in the eyes—of other little children. I know what it is myself.—I was twelve—when some big boys chased me and called me names.—I never left the house afterwards—without being afraid. I was afraid, in the streets—in the school—in the church, everywhere, always, afraid of being hurt. And I—was not—afraid in vain. (The weeping begins again). He’s only a baby—and he’s blighted. (To Jimmy) Honey, I’m right here. I’m coming in just a minute. Don’t cry. (To Strong) If it nearly kills me to hear my Jimmy’s crying, do you think I could stand it, when my own child, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood—learned the same reason for weeping? Do you? (Pauses). Ever since I fell here—a week ago—I am afraid—to go—to sleep, for every time I do—my children come—and beg me—weeping—not to—bring them here—to suffer. Tonight, they came—when I was awake. (Pauses). I have promised them again, now—by Jimmy’s bed. (In a whisper) I have damned—my soul to all eternity—if I do. (To Jimmy) Honey, don’t! I’m coming. (To Strong) And John,—dear John—you see—it can never be—all the beautiful, beautiful things—you have—told me about. (Wistfully) No—they—can never be—now. (Strong comes toward her) No,—John dear,—you—must not—touch me—any more. (Pauses). Dear, this—is—“Good-bye.”

Strong (Quietly): It’s not fair—to you, Rachel, to take you—at your word—tonight. You’re sick; you’ve brooded so long, so continuously,—you’ve lost—your perspective. Don’t answer, yet. Think it over for another week and I’ll come back.

Rachel (Wearily): No,—I can’t think—any more.