[_He breaks off, smitten with self-consciousness._]
I lack words, but I feel
What our neighbor puts into his pictures!
+The Man.+
[_Not knowing what else to say, says_]
Well, well!
+The Mother.+
[_Sitting on the edge of the_ +Husband’s+ _wheelbarrow._]
When I wanted to put on my earrings at least--
Who’s to know that one has them if not! Said Monsieur,
Mother-love was adornment enough! Mother-love
Makes the face of a woman divine, be she queen,
Or just peasant, like me!
[_Cuddling her infant._]
+Several.+
Well, there’s something in that!
+The Wife.+
[_With some faint apprehension of the finer thing._]
And I, too, when it’s cool and the evening is still,
The potatoes all stacked, from yon church at Chailly,
When the bell rings the Angelus--
[_Breaks off, lacking expression, and picks up another potato._]
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Has listened attentively. She now breaks into mocking
laughter._]
Clots of earth! Clots of earth, clots of earth, ev’ry one!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Resentfully._]
Clot yourself! Aren’t you one of us born?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Being born
Isn’t all of one’s life! Soon this Barbizon soil
I shake off, change sabots for silk stockings, and shoes
With high heels like a lady’s! You’ll see!
+The Others.+
And what then?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Balancing her basket on her head._]
And then ... Paris!
+The Others.+
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
And then, Paris!
[_Going._]
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Following her._]
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Is heard, laughing, and repeating._]
Paris!
+The Man.+
[_Preparing to go._]
You can’t blame her. Life’s hard, as she said!
+The Wife.+
Oh, not blame!
Shall one blame what the good God permits? But at least
One can pity and pray!
[_Crossing herself._]
+The Mother.+
[_Going._]
Well, my man will be in
From the field
[_The_ +Youth+ _drifts away, whistling_ +Millet’s+ _song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Shaking down the potatoes in their sack._]