Rachel: A Play in Three Acts

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 clearest, 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 tum 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.