[_In a more intense monotone_]. How can you say this to me, your mama?... When you was a little boy, we were so poor.... I slaved my fingers to the bone that there should be money to buy you nice things. My fingers, they used to bleed. Look at my hands, Jakie. It is still there the marks. JACK [_Bends over her hands_]. I know, Mama. I know. GENE [_Enters._] Your specialty’ll be on in a minute, Mr. Robin. JACK All right, Gene.... Mama, I haven’t time to tell you—I’ve got to go on! Yudelson ... Mary ... tell my mother.... MARY I’ll go out and see if I can’t hold them for a moment. [_She hastens out._] SARA [_As if in a trance_]. Your papa said, “Ask Jakie he should forgive me. He is doing things from sin, but he don’t mean it. In his heart he is a Rabinowitz”.... Jakie, the way I’m sitting here, before God I swear it—that is what he said. JACK [_His voice almost breaking_]. I believe you, mama! I believe you! GENE [_Enters again_]. We’re waiting for you, Mr. Robin. We can’t hold it any longer. JACK [_Frantic_]. Yes, yes, I’m coming!... Mama, if you only knew how the manager is depending on me.... [_Off-stage can be heard the introductory chords to a jazz song._] They’re going to make me a star, Mama.... GENE [_With irritated finality_]. There’s your introduction, Mr. Robin! [_He goes._] JACK Yes, yes! [_He is now in full comedy costume and is kneeling before his mother._] Mama, there’s my introduction—wait here fifteen minutes—I haven’t got time to tell you.... Yudelson! Please talk to my mama. GENE [_Enters again_]. Mr. Robin, they’ll blame me for this! JACK Yes, yes, I’m coming. Mama—Yudelson—wait! Please! [_He goes. The door is open. We see the changing lights through the door._ YUDELSON _gently forces_ SARA _into a chair by the door as we hear_ JACK _off-stage shouting the comedy lines of the beginning of the act.... “I’m going down South to the land of cotton and jasmine, where the watermelons grow, where I can be with my Mammy. If you’ll all sit down I’ll sing you a song all about it”...._ _Then the orchestra throbs into wailing, syncopating life, and_ JACK _is heard, off-stage singing a verse and chorus of “Dixie Mammy.” His rendition is excellent jazz—that is, it has an evangelical fervor, a fanatical frenzy; it wallows in plaintiveness and has moments of staggering dramatic intensity, despite the obvious shoddiness of the words and the music. We are listening to a Cantor in blackface, to a ritual supplication on the stage, to religion cheapened and intensified by the trappings of Broadway. He finishes his first chorus._]