Man and Superman and Three Other Plays

by George Bernard Shaw

  ANDERSON [rather guiltily] I—er—

  MRS. DUDGEON [vehemently] Dont 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,bm 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 s hall 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 youre 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 cant have your breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company. [She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, on one of which she puts a barnbrackbn with a knife beside it. On the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and counting the rest]. Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. And keep your fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? [She replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully].

  CHRISTY [lingering at the fire] Youd better put the inkstand instead, for the lawyer.

  MRS. DUDGEON Thats no answer to make to me, sir. Go and do as youre told. [CHRISTY turns sullenly to obey]. Stop: take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in: you cant expect me to do all the heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about.

  CHRISTY takes the window bar out of its clamps, and puts it aside; then opens the shutter, shewing the grey morning. MRS. DUDGEON takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf.

  CHRISTY [looking through the window] Here’s the minister’s wife.

  MRS. DUDGEON [displeased] What! Is she coming here?

  CHRISTY Yes.

  MRS. DUDGEON What does she want troubling me at this hour, before I’m properly dressed to receive people?

  CHRISTY Youd better ask her.

  MRS. DUDGEON [threateningly] Youd better keep a civil tongue in your head. [He goes sulkily towards the door. She comes after him, plying him with instructions]. Tell that girl to come to me as soon as she’s had her breakfast. And tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. [CHRISTY goes out and slams the door in her face]. Nice manners, that! [Someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries inhospitably] Come in. [JUDITH ANDERSON, the minister’s wife, comes in. JUDITH is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though she will never be as young as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams. Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child’s vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how rough a place the world is. One feels, on the whole, that ANDERSON might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better]. Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs. Anderson?

  JUDITH [very politely—almost patronizingly] Yes. Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place ready before they come to read the will?

  MRS. DUDGEON [stiffly] Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my house is always ready for anyone to come into.

  MRS. ANDERSON [with complacent amiability] Yes, indeed it is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just now.

  MRS. DUDGEON Oh, one more or less will make no difference this morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that youre here, youd better stay. If you wouldnt mind shutting the door! [JUDITH smiles, implying “How stupid of me!” and shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and becoming]. Thats better. I must go and tidy myself a bit. I suppose you dont mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until I’m ready.

  JUDITH [graciously giving her leave] Oh yes, certainly. Leave them to me, Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. [She hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack].

  MRS. DUDGEON [half sneering] I thought that would be more in your way than getting the house ready. [ESSIE comes back]. Oh, here you are! [Severely] Come here: let me see you. [ESSIE timidly goes to her. MRS. DUDGEON takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself—results which shew little practice and less conviction]. Mm! Thats what you call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It’s easy to see what you are, and how you were brought up. [She throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily] Now you listen to me and do as youre told. You sit down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes dont dare to speak until youre spoken to. [ESSIE creeps away to the fireplace]. Your father’s people had better see you and know youre there: theyre as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am. At any rate they might help. But let me have no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their
equal. Do you hear?

  ESSIE Yes.

  MRS. DUDGEON Well, then go and do as youre told. [ESSIE sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from the door]. Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know who she is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and I’ll settle accounts with her. [MRS. DUDGEON goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand].

  JUDITH [patronizing ESSIE, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more becomingly] You must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, and desires your good too.

  ESSIE [in listless misery] Yes.

  JUDITH [annoyed with ESSIE for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark] You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie.

  ESSIE No.

  JUDITH Thats a good girl! [She places a couple of chairs at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than MRS. DUDGEON]. Do you know any of your father’s relatives?

  ESSIE No. They wouldnt have anything to do with him: they were too religious. Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I never saw him.

  JUDITH [ostentatiously shocked] Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct?

  ESSIE [very half-heartedly] Yes.

  JUDITH Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon—never even think about him. He is a bad man.

  ESSIE What has he done?

  JUDITH You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. But he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men.

  ESSIE Yes.

  JUDITH [again displeased] I am afraid you say Yes and No without thinking very deeply.

  ESSIE Yes. At least I mean—

  JUDITH [severely] What do you mean?

  ESSIE [almost crying] Only—my father was a smuggler; and—[Someone knocks].

  JUDITH They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt’s directions, Essie; and be a good girl. [CHRISTY comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he places on the table]. Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the people have come.

  CHRISTY Good morning. [He opens the house door].

  The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and ANDERSON, who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is accompanied by LAWYER HAWKINS, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. He and ANDERSON are allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. After them comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, WILLIAM DUDGEON, a large, shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a prosperous man. The junior uncle, TITUS DUDGEON, is a wiry little terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both free from the cares of the WILLIAM household.

  HAWKINS at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest the sofa, CHRISTY having left the inkstand there. He puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. UNCLE WILLIAM comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving MRS. WILLIAM derelict near the door. UNCLE TITUS, who is the lady’s man of the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his brother’s. ANDERSON hangs up his hat and waits for a word with JUDITH.

  JUDITH She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. [She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes through].

  ANDERSON [taking his place at the table at the opposite end to HAWKINS] Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. Are we all here?

  CHRISTY [at the house door, which he has just shut] All except Dick. The callousness with which CHRISTY names the reprobate jars on the moral sense of the family. UNCLE WILLIAM shakes his head slowly and repeatedly. MRS. TITUS catches her breath convulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks.

  UNCLE TITUS Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I hope so.

  The DUDGEONS all murmur assent, except CHRISTY, who goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out. HAWKINS smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it. ANDERSON is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his nature. JUDITH appears at the bedroom door.

  JUDITH [with gentle impressiveness] Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. [She takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for MRS. DUDGEON, who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except ESSIE. MRS. TITUS and MRS. WILLIAM produce equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment].

  UNCLE WILLIAM Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer?

  UNCLE TITUS Or sing a hymn?

  ANDERSON [rather hastily] I have been with our sister this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.

  ALL [except ESSIE] Amen.

  They all sit down, except JUDITH, who stands behind MRS. DUDGEON’s chair.

  JUDITH [to ESSIE] Essie: did you say Amen?

  ESSIE [scaredly] No.

  JUDITH Then say it, like a good girl.

  ESSIE Amen.

  UNCLE WILLIAM [encouragingly] Thats right: thats right. We know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before the Throne. This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded.

  CHRISTY [at the window] Here’s Dick.

  ANDERSON and HAWKINS look round sociably. ESSIE, with a gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. CHRISTY grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking member of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only, his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness; and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic.

  RICHARD [on the threshold, taking off his hat] Ladies and gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. [With this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to CHRISTY with a suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper,bo and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and deliberately surveys the company]. How happy you all look! how glad to see me! [He turns towards MRS. DUDGEON’s chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of undisguised hatred]. Well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual? thats right, thats right. [JUDITH pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from contamination. UNCLE TITUS promptly marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit down upon]. What! Uncle William! I havnt seen you since you gave up drinking. [Poor UNCLE WILLIAM, shamed, would protest; but RICHARD claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding] you have given it up, havnt you? [releasing him with a playful push] of course you have: quite right too: you overdid it. [He turns away from UNCLE WILLIAM and makes for the sofa]. And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. [He comes upon him holding the chair as JUDITH sits down]. As usual, looking after the ladies!

  UNCLE TITUS [indignantly] Be ashamed of yourself, sir— />
  RICHARD [interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him] I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle—proud of all my relatives— [again surveying them] who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? [UNCLE TITUS, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. RICHARD turns to the table]. Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark. Come! [with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the decanter] clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times.

  ANDERSON You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before dinner.

  RICHARD You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink before breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. [He smells the wine and makes a wry face]. But do not begin on my mother’s company sherry. I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate man ever since. [He puts the decanter down and changes the subject]. So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks.

  ANDERSON [quietly indicating JUDITH] Sir: you are in the presence of my wife. [JUDITH rises and stands with stony propriety].

  RICHARD [quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners] Your servant, madam: no offence. [He looks at her earnestly]. You deserve your reputation; but I’m sorry to see by your expression that youre a good woman. [She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy from his relatives. ANDERSON, sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored]. All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father?

  UNCLE TITUS He had only one irregular child, sir. RICHARD Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, Uncle Titus.

  ANDERSON Mr. Dudgeon: you are in the presence of your mother and her grief.

  RICHARD It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has become of the irregular child?