Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
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Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you.
MRS. DUDGEON. [With intensely recalcitrant resignation.] It’s His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being hanged?—and. [Spitefully.] that deserved it, if ever a man did.
ANDERSON. [Gently.] They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we were married: he had too much respect for me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a selfish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must bear my cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended.
ANDERSON. [Very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to it.] Your eldest son was present at the execution, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Disagreeably surprised.] Richard?
ANDERSON. [Nodding.] Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Vindictively.] Let it be a warning to him. He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless—[She suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread.] Did Timothy see him?
ANDERSON. Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Holding her breath.] Well?
ANDERSON. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. [Mrs. Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her ease again.] Your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his brother’s awful death. [Mrs. Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to demand with some indignation.] Well, wasn’t it only natural, Mrs. Dudgeon? He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent for him to come to see him.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Her alarm renewed.] Sent for Richard!
ANDERSON. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his father a message; but I’m sorry to say it was a wicked message—an awful message.
MRS. DUDGEON. What was it?
ANDERSON. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against his good parents, in this world and the next.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Implacably.] He will be punished for it. He will be punished for it—in both worlds.
ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the wicked shall be punished. Why should we do our duty and keep God’s law if there is to be no difference made between us and those who follow their own likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker’s word?
ANDERSON. Well, Richard’s earthly father has been merciful and his heavenly judge is the father of us all.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Forgetting herself.] Richard’s earthly father was a softheaded—
ANDERSON. [Shocked.] Oh!
MRS. DUDGEON. [With a touch of shame.] Well, I am Richard’s mother. If I am against him who has any right to be for him? [Trying to conciliate him.] Won’t you sit down, Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but I’m so troubled.
ANDERSON. Thank you—[He takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. When he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult subject.] Has Christy told you about the new will?
MRS. DUDGEON. [All her fears returning.] The new will! Did Timothy—? [She breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the question.]
ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind.
MRS. DUDGEON. [White with intense rage.] And you let him rob me?
ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own son.
MRS. DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well he knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. The more shame on you, Mr. Anderson,—you, a minister of the gospel—to act as his accomplice in such a crime.
ANDERSON. [Rising.] I will take no offence at what you say in the first bitterness of your grief.
MRS. DUDGEON. [Contemptuously.] Grief!
ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your heart to think that the better word.
MRS. DUDGEON. My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us?
ANDERSON. [Rather guiltily.] I—er—
MRS. DUDGEON. [Vehemently.] Don’t lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his days with a rope round his neck—aye, to Peter Dudgeon. You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me and strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a God-fearing man—as he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the woman I am? And you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. [She turns from him and leans with her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of him.]
ANDERSON. [Willing enough to escape.] The Lord forbid that I should come between you and the source of all comfort! [He goes to the rack for his coat and hat.]
MRS. DUDGEON. [Without looking at him.] The Lord will know what to forbid and what to allow without your help.
ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope—Eli Hawkins and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against His law. [He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.] Just one word—on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There is the reading of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a right to be present. He is in the town; but he has the grace to say that he does not want to force himself in here.
MRS. DUDGEON. He shall come here. Does he expect us to leave his father’s house for his convenience? Let them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day’s work. I shall be ready, never fear.
ANDERSON. [Coming back a step or two.] Mrs. Dudgeon: I used to have some little influence with you. When did I lose it?
MRS. DUDGEON. [Still without turning to him.] When you married for love. Now you’re answered.
ANDERSON. Yes: I am answered. [He goes out, musing.]
MRS. DUDGEON. [To herself, thinking of her husband.] Thief! Thief!! [She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing Anderson’s chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way.] Christy. [No answer: he is fast asleep.] Christy. [She shakes him roughly.] Get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself—sleeping, and your father dead! [She returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads.]
CHRISTY. [Rising reluctantly.] Well, do you suppose we are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning?
MRS. DUDGEON. I want none of your sulks. Here: help me to set this table. [They place the table in the middle of the room, with Christy’s end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon’s towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the final adjustments of its position.] We shall have the minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that girl; and then light the stove in the shed: you can’t have your breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and make