Rachel: A Play in Three Acts

by Angelina Weld Grimké

(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.