The Collected Dramas of George Bernard Shaw (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
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(frowning). No use: they wouldn’t spare me; and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America a nation.
JUDITH (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter?
RICHARD (laughing). True: what does it matter? what does anything matter? You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the folly of them.
JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through them.
RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise that you are going to kill yourself?
RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH. Dead!
RICHARD. Of heart disease — in the night. Her last word to me was her curse: I don’t think I could have borne her blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH (stonily, after a moment’s silence). And I!
RICHARD (surprised). You?
JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
RICHARD (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. What happened may have softened you for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don’t like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12 today as I should have been at 12 yesterday.
JUDITH (her voice trembling). What can I do to show you that you are mistaken?
RICHARD. Don’t trouble. I’ll give you credit for liking me a little better than you did. All I say is that my death will not break your heart.
JUDITH (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.)
RICHARD (amazed — divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!! (The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects himself, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse me: they will be here for me presently. It is too late.
JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted.
RICHARD (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don’t go through with it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply have tricked them; and they’ll hang me for that like a dog. Serve me right too!
JUDITH (wildly). Oh, I believe you WANT to die.
RICHARD (obstinately). No I don’t.
JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you — listen. You said just now that you saved him for my sake — yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) a little for my sake. Well, save yourself for my sake. And I will go with you to the end of the world.
RICHARD (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him, looking steadily at her). Judith.
JUDITH (breathless — delighted at the name). Yes.
RICHARD. If I said — to please you — that I did what I did ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women. You know how much I have lived with worthless men — aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love. (The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn.) That has taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) as I do for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I can tell you is that when it came to the point whether I would take my neck out of the noose and put another man’s into it, I could not do it. I don’t know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could not and I cannot. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (She has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.) I should have done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man’s wife. (Releasing her.) Do you understand that?
JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me.
RICHARD (revolted — with fierce contempt). Is that all it means to you?
JUDITH. What more — what worse — can it mean to me?
(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart.) Oh, one moment more. (She throws herself on her knees.) I pray to you —
RICHARD. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant unlocks the door and opens it. The guard is with him.)
SERGEANT (coming in). Time’s up, sir.
RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He attempts to raise her.)
JUDITH (clinging to him). Only one thing more — I entreat, I implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it. You will ask it. It is my last request: I shall never ask you anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I beg and pray it of you.
RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent?
JUDITH. Yes.
RICHARD. You will keep faith?
JUDITH. I will keep — (She breaks down, sobbing.)
RICHARD (taking her arm to lift her). Just — her other arm, Sergeant.
They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men.
Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his presence felt rather heavily.
SERGEANT. The General, sir.
Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense.
BURGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume.
SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (They bow to one another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have the support of your presence this morning. It is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister.
BURGOYNE (throwing himself onto Swindon’s chair). No, sir, it is not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have done if he had been a member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir, is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become famous without ability. However, you have committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged the better.
SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o’clock. Nothing remains to be done except to try him.
BURGOYNE (looking at him with suppressed anger). Nothing — except