ANDERSON [pointing to ESSIE] There, sir, listening to you.
RICHARD [shocked into sincerity] What! Why the devil didnt you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in this house without—[He hurries remorsefully to ESSIE]. Come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. [She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath] Who has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By God—
MRS. DUDGEON [rising and confronting him] Silence your blasphemous tongue. I will bear no more of this. Leave my house.
RICHARD How do you know it’s your house until the will is read? [They look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. RICHARD goes boldly up past ANDERSON to the window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand]. Ladies and gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson: by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of the family. [He places the chair at the table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air]. We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. [He shakes his head deploringly. The relatives freeze with horror]. T h a t sright: pull your longest faces [his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on ESSIE] provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. [Briskly] Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. Get on with the will, man.
TITUS Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. Hawkins.
HAWKINS [very politely and willingly] Mr. Dudgeon means no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses—[he fumbles for them. The DUDGEONS look at one another with misgiving].
RICHARD Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. [He pours out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself].
HAWKINS Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir.
RICHARD Yours, sir. [With the glass halfway to his lips, he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint intensity] Will anyone oblige me with a glass of water?
ESSIE, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises stealthily and slips out behind MRS. DUDGEON through the bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as possible.
HAWKINS The will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology.
RICHARD No: my father died without the consolations of the law.
HAWKINS Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. [Preparing to read] Are you ready, sir?
RICHARD Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead.
HAWKINS [reading] “This is the last will and testament of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections.”
RICHARD [glancing at his mother] Aha!
HAWKINS [shaking his head] Bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. “I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to the number of five.”
RICHARD How if she wont have him?
CHRISTY She will if I have fifty pounds.
RICHARD Good, my brother. Proceed.
HAWKINS “I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose”—you see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother was not born Annie: she was christened so—“an annuity of fifty two pounds a year for life [MRS. DUDGEON, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively rigid] to be paid out of the interest on her own money”—t here‘ssaway to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money!
MRS. DUDGEON A very good way to put God’s truth. It was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year!
HAWKINS “And I recommend her for her goodness and piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood between them and her as far as I could to the best of my ability.”
MRS. DUDGEON And this is my reward! [raging inwardly] You know what I think, Mr. Anderson: you know the word I gave to it.
ANDERSON It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must take what comes to us. [To HAWKINS]. Go on, sir.
HAWKINS “I give and bequeath my house at Websterbridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard Dudgeon.”
RICHARD Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf.
HAWKINS “On these conditions—”
RICHARD The devil! Are there conditions?
HAWKINS “To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother Peter’s natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil life.”
RICHARD [emphatically, striking his fist on the table] Agreed. MRS. DUDGEON, turning to look malignantly at ESSIE, misses her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully.
HAWKINS “Second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse Jim”—[again shaking his head] he should have written James, sir.
RICHARD James shall live in clover. Go on.
HAWKINS—“and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger Feston in his service.”
RICHARD Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday.
HAWKINS “Third, that he make Christy a present on his marriage out of the ornaments in the best room.”
RICHARD [holding up the stuffed birds] Here you are, Christy.
CHRISTY [disappointed] I’d rather have the china peacocks.
RICHARD You shall have both. [CHRISTY is greatly pleased]. Go on.
HAWKINS “Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it.”
RICHARD [dubiously] Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins?
HAWKINS [solemnly] “Finally I give and bequeath my soul into my Maker’s hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour in this strange place.”
ANDERSON Amen.
THE UNCLES AND AUNTS Amen.
RICHARD My mother does not say Amen.
MRS. DUDGEON [rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle] Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me.
HAWKINS This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. Dudgeon; though [turning politely to RICHARD] it contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property.
ANDERSON [interposing before MRS. DUDGEON can retort] That is not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will?
HAWKINS The courts will sustain it against the other.
ANDERSON But why, if the other is more lawfully worded?
HAWKINS Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man—and that man the eldest son—against any woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, would never be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldn’t take advice; and now Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. [He takes his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles].
This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. ANDERSON takes his hat from the rack and joins UNCLE WILLIAM at the fire. UNCLE TITUS fetches JUDITH her things from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and chat with HAWKINS. MRS. DUDGEON, now an intruder in her own house, stands erect,
crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. MRS. DUDGEON is rescued from her apathy by ESSIE, who comes back with the jug full of water. She is taking it to RICHARD when MRS. DUDGEON stops her.
MRS. DUDGEON [threatening her] Where have you been? [ESSIE, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot]. How dare you go out by yourself after the orders I gave you?
ESSIE He asked for a drink—[she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate with terror].
JUDITH [with gentler severity] Who asked for a drink? [ESSIE, speechless, points to RICHARD].
RICHARD What! I!
JUDITH [shocked] Oh Essie, Essie!
RICHARD I believe I did. [He takes a glass and holds it to ESSIE to be filled. Her hand shakes]. What! afraid of me?
ESSIE [quickly] No. I—[She pours out the water].
RICHARD [tasting it] Ah, youve been up the street to the market gate spring to get that. [He takes a draught]. Delicious! Thank you. [Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of JUDITH’s face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for ESSIE, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass; deliberately winds his arm round ESSIE’s shoulders; and brings her into the middle of the company. MRS. DUDGEON being in ESSIE’s way as they come past the table, he says] By your leave, mother [and compels her to make way for them]. What do they call you? Bessie?
ESSIE Essie.
RICHARD Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie?
ESSIE [greatly disappointed that he, of all people, should begin at her in this way] Yes. [She looks doubtfully at JUDITH]. I think so. I mean I—I hope so.
RICHARD Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil?
ANDERSON [revolted] Shame on you, sir, with a mere child—
RICHARD By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. [To ESSIE] Do you know what they call me, Essie?
ESSIE Dick.
RICHARD [amused: patting her on the shoulder] Yes, Dick; but something else too. They call me the Devil’s Disciple.
ESSIE Why do you let them?
RICHARD [seriously] Because it’s true. I was brought up in the other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my natural master and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in this house of children’s tears. I promised him my soul, and swore an oath that I would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in the next. [Solemnly] That promise and that oath made a man of me. From this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. Now [turning forcibly on the rest] which of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil?
JUDITH [coming to ESSIE and throwing a protecting arm about her] I will. You should be burnt alive.
ESSIE But I dont want to. [She shrinks back, leaving RICHARD and JUDITH face to face].
RICHARD [to JUDITH] Actually doesnt want to, most virtuous lady!
UNCLE TITUS Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law—
RICHARD [turning threateningly on him] Have a care, you. In an hour from this there will be no law here but martial law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon Major Swindon’s gallows for rebels will be up in the market place.
ANDERSON [calmly] What have we to fear from that, sir?
RICHARD More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring home a rebellious word. Well, we’re all rebels; and you know it.
ALL THE MEN [except ANDERSON] No, no, no!
RICHARD Yes, you are. You havnt damned King George up hill and down dale as I have; but youve prayed for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. They maynt hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the Devil’s Disciple dancing on nothing wouldnt help them. But a Minister! [JUDITH, dismayed, clings to ANDERSON] or a lawyer! [HAWKINS smiles like a man able to take care of himself ] or an upright horsedealer! [UNCLE TITUS snarls at him in rage and terror] or a reformed drunkard! [UNCLE WILLIAM, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear] eh? Would that shew that King George meant business—ha?
ANDERSON [perfectly self-possessed] Come, my dear: he is only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. [He takes her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except ESSIE, who remains near RICHARD].
RICHARD [boisterously derisive] Now then: how many of you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil’s house; and make a fight for freedom? [They scramble out, CHRISTY among them, hustling one another in their haste] Ha ha! Long live the devil! [To MRS. DUDGEON, who is following them] What, mother! Are you off too?
MRS. DUDGEON [deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a deathblow] My curse on you! My dying curse! [She goes out].
RICHARD [calling after her] It will bring me luck. Ha ha ha!
ESSIE [anxiously] Maynt I stay?
RICHARD [turning to her] What! Have they forgotten to save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you may stay. [He turns excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs down. ESSIE seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He starts and looks at it]. Tears! The devil’s baptism! [She falls on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, saying] Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.
ACT II
Minister Anderson’s house is in the main street of Websterbridge, not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth century New Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons; but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at about the same rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of American cloth, chappedbp at the corners by draping. The tea service on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament; and the minister’s house coat hangs on a peg from its door, shewing that he is out; for when he is in, it is his best coat that hangs there. His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the minister’s kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. Anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in short, that life is a
s easy at the minister’s house as it is hard at the farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs of her superior social pretensions are, a druggetbq on the floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers, and chairs which, though not upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a copperplate of Raphael’s St Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf , flanked by a couple of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells.br A pretty feature of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webbbs and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying home through the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.
JUDITH [running to him] Oh, here you are at last, at last! [She attempts to embrace him].
ANDERSON [keeping her off ] Take care, my love: I’m wet. Wait till I get my cloak off. [He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to JUDITH]. Now! [She flies into his arms]. I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.
Man and Superman and Three Other Plays Page 27