by Tony Kushner
RUTH
(Softly) ’N’ den dere bin a stillet in da passes a da moon . . .
SARAH
(Softly) Selah. Selah. Oh Yisroel ’n’ Judah. ’Tis da power a Gawd, oh hallelujah . . .
(The room is transformed, through lights, into a verdant green bower in a woods.)
SARAH
(Gentle) Cross dat stream, fellow creatures, inta dat little woods, bin home . . .
’N’ da leaves sparkle, it bin spring, ’n’ tendah, ’n’ da light bin sil-vah,’n’ da tree bark black, ’n’ da leaves dat particala shade a green, ’n’, Oh, we remembah, ’n’, Oh, we be back dere someday,’n’ in dis walk a exile we weepet, ’n’ remembah da woods . . .
(She reaches with great sudden violence toward the heavens. A hot white light, obliterating all other light, breaks down upon her, and upon Browne at her feet.)
SARAH
(Rage) ’N’ pour, let us pour into dis memory, fellow creatures, such . . . strong . . . hate.
(All three place their hands on Browne. Browne shudders and cries. From the fields outside, a deep, ominous earthquake rumble.)
SARAH
Dat bin enough. ’Tis done, ’n’ will unfold in time.
Dr. Browne, I give you dis, dis one last gift, whatchoo give to my ma:
Dat you bin wide awake when da little gentleman come. ’N’ he bin coming.
(They dress him and lay him back in the bed. Sarah puts her clothes on.)
MARY
Nicet rant, Ruth.
RUTH
(Loading up with silver again) I bin hinspired. Da curse take, Sarah?
(Sarah listens. Outside, the rumble rumbles again, fainter.)
SARAH
Oh, yoop.
(They exit.
Dr. Dogwater sneaks in, goes to the Bible, takes out his fake Will, produces a pencil, and speaking as writes:)
DR. DOGWATER
“. . . and I further stipulate that Dr. Dogwater alone duh-deliver my eulogy, that nuh-no other puh- persons be allowed to suh-speak at my fuh-funeral particularly not my uh-overpriced fancy foreign physician whose cuh-cuh-criminal ineptitude in muh-medicinal matters is matched by his guh-guttural Tuh-Teutonic-ally inflected muh-muh-murder of the kuh-king’s English.”
(He kisses the Will, replaces it, exits.
Immediately upon his exit the Abbess of X, who has been hiding in the curtains, goes to the Bible, and removes Dogwater’s Will. She takes from her robes a strange-looking device with a crank handle. She inserts the Will in a slot at the top of the device, cranks the handle, and opens a little drawer at the base of the gadget: the Will has been shredded into long strips. She puts the strips back in the Bible, checks under the mattress to makes sure her Will is still there; she kisses it, makes the sign of the cross over her sleeping brother and leaves. Dorothy sneaks out from behind another curtain, replaces the Abbess’s Will under the mattress with her own from the desk, strikes a match, sets the Abbess’s Will afire. She hears someone coming. Dorothy ducks back behind the curtain, dropping the flaming Will, in a panic abandoning it on the floor by the bed, smoldering. Babbo enters, looking for something. Then she spots the tart Death left on the bed. She claps her hands, picks it up, sticks first one hand and then another hand in the tart and starts to rifle its filling, smearing herself with purple goo. She scratches her head in confusion, then sees Dorothy’s Will on the floor. Babbo claps her hands again—she’s found the Will—she retrieves it and stuffs it in the tart. She begins to leave with the tart, when Dorothy steps out from behind the curtain. She looks on the floor; the Will she dropped is gone. She looks at Babbo.)
DAME DOROTHY
Where’s the . . .
BABBO
Where da what?
DAME DOROTHY
What’s in that tart?
BABBO
(Hiding the tart behind her back) Han’t see no tart.
DAME DOROTHY
Babbo, give me that tart.
(Babbo bolts from the room.)
DAME DOROTHY
Babbo! Give me that tart! Babbo!
(She exits in pursuit. Browne moans in his sleep; he wakes up.)
DR. BROWNE
Washed. All washed . . . Up.
Unspool, unclench, I will plant this onion in the earth . . . And go on living . . .
(He strains to push the blockage out. He is stricken by another searing, tearing pain in his gut. He screams, clutches his side.
He opens his eyes again and sees the urn.)
DR. BROWNE
You’ve arrived. Silent urn. Still mouth.
I remember the Capuchin catacombs in Rome. That quiet, that fragile stillness. Those dry, deflated bodies. The disappointed faces of the dead.
(Maccabbee enters with Chicken C, dragging it by its neck; it has swelled even more than when we last saw it—a medicine ball of a chicken; HUGE.
His Soul rises up behind the headboard in silent homicidal expectation.)
MACCABBEE
Doctah?
DR. BROWNE
Go fetch the gravedigger. The urn’s arrived.
MACCABBEE
Looket. Da chicken. It bin heavier now dan before. Forty-seven pounds.
DR. BROWNE
(Lying back, closing his eyes) Monstrous fowl. And what do you conclude, Maccabbee?
MACCABBEE
I conclude dat death been fulla surpriset.
(Maccabbee swings the immense heavy chicken back over his head, intending to crush Browne with it; he swings too hard and the force of its parabola carries Maccabbee backward to the floor with a crash. Browne sits up, looks at Maccabbee on the floor.)
MACCABBEE
Oops. I slippet.
(Babbo enters. His Soul sinks from view.)
BABBO
Doctah, dere bin someone here ta see you. She wannet me ta prepare ya fer da shock.
DR. BROWNE
Maccabbee, go get the gravedigger. Wait. The urn. Unscrew the lid.
(Maccabbee does.)
DR. BROWNE
What’s inside?
MACCABBEE
(Head in the urn; his words echo spookily as if being spoken into a deep well [use a microphone]) Noot but ashy stoof, dead gray sandy grit ’n’ bit a bone.
DR. BROWNE
From which you conclude?
MACCABBEE
(Raising his head out of the urn) Nuffin.
DR. BROWNE
(Quiet despair) Exactly so.
(Fury) Where’s that gravedigger, you idiot?
MACCABBEE
Inna woods wif yer wife.
(He exits.)
DR. BROWNE
Actually, I knew that.
BABBO
Doctah, yer visitah.
DR. BROWNE
Is it Alice?
BABBO
How you know dat?
DR. BROWNE
I saw her. Has she . . . Is she some sort of nun?
BABBO
Some sort, but I han’t say what.
DR. BROWNE
Show her in.
(Babbo exits.)
DR. BROWNE
Oh open urn, cough up that dust.
(A spume of dust rises from the urn. Browne is badly startled, frightened, then:)
DR. BROWNE
See? The dead do rise.
(The Abbess enters.)
DR. BROWNE
(Finds her presence, the sight of her, frightening) Alice.
THE ABBESS OF X
You look well, Thomas.
DR. BROWNE
(Attempting politeness) And you, I must say, look ferocious.
(Almost afraid to ask) Is he here, too?
THE ABBESS OF X
Who, Thomas?
DR. BROWNE
But no, I suppose he couldn’t be.
The silk merchant.
THE ABBESS OF X
Father?
DR. BROWNE
Does convent life agree with you, Alice? Not too quiet?
THE
ABBESS OF X
It is an active order.
DR. BROWNE
I’m glad you didn’t drown, that’s damp.
Into the sea poor Alice was tossed.
Everyone thought that her life was done.
Blankety-blankety she wasn’t lost.
She went in a sinner and came out a nun.
THE ABBESS OF X
(Moving toward the bed) Thomas, I must talk seriously with you, I—
DR. BROWNE
(Stopping her approach) The silk merchant Browne. He died . . . You never knew him, really. He died when I was eight. He was a granite-hearted drunkard, his sheets were soiled and stank like these. Father Dead.
THE ABBESS OF X
Thomas, I need to—
DR. BROWNE
(Turning away from her, trying to stop her from talking, frightened) My writing desk was once set up facing the window. In the daytime, the view of the fields, the weather and light. But at night, Alice, the window went black, a mirror; I could see nothing in it but my tired face, the little candle light, and sometimes, stranger things. The faces of the dead in the window at night. My children’s faces. Father’s. Waiting and hungry . . . I moved the desk to face the wall. Eventually.
THE ABBESS OF X
Is there a Will, Thomas? Where’s the Will? He was my father too, some of the money—
DR. BROWNE
(Stopping her) Alice (Very fast) I’ve had fourteen children with Dorothy; eight died in infancy; those are the ones I love. The others grew large and difficult. I wrote a few books; they knighted me for that, and because I stayed loyal to the king. I was wrong to support him, they were right to chop his head off, progress is inexorable and his blood greased the works. Now I’m dying, and you’re a nun, how funny, with many a jolly tale to tell, no doubt, but it’s been twenty years and I mourned your death once and I’m more comfortable now thinking you still dead, so please, whoever you are, go away. Your presence is too vital and it causes pain.
(Pause.)
THE ABBESS OF X
(Placing the vial of holy water on his pillow) Water from the Vatican—holy water. Do with it what you will.
Some of the money should go to me, Thomas, it was my birthright, too. Father’s inheritance.
DR. BROWNE
There’s a distinctly mercenary scent in the air tonight. This isn’t me dying; it’s a great deal of money rolling over.
THE ABBESS OF X
Am I named in the Will?
DR. BROWNE
(Suddenly desperate) Help me, Alice. I CAN’T SHIT.
THE ABBESS OF X
Neither could Father, after he took ill. You’re fifty years old. So was he. You’ve inherited everything, even his death.
Good-bye.
(She goes. Browne drinks the holy water, greedily.
Maccabbee enters with a machete. His Soul sits up again to watch. Maccabbee sneaks up behind Browne, and then swings the machete mightily back over his head, screaming:)
MACCABBEE
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAHHH!
(Again swings too hard; the tip of the machete impales itself in the floor behind him. Browne looks over at Maccabbee, who fakes a sneeze.)
MACCABBEE
Choo!
(Babbo enters again. His Soul sinks from view.)
BABBO
Secuset da interruptet, but now dere bin another woman ta see you, verra helegant ’n’ mystrous. I think she bin foreign; she talket funny.
(Dorothy enters.)
DR. BROWNE
Not so foreign after all.
BABBO
No, Doctah, dis han’t da foreign woman, dis yer wife.
(Babbo goes.)
DAME DOROTHY
Thomas, there’s a woman from court come to pay her respects. The wife of the Spanish ambassador. You never told me to expect...
DR. BROWNE
Expect anything and everything. Death is full of surprises, right, Maccabbee?
MACCABBEE
Fulla interruptet, too.
DAME DOROTHY
What are you doing with that cleaver?
MACCABBEE
Bin trimmet da shrubbery.
DAME DOROTHY
There’s no shrubbery in here.
MACCABBEE
’Tis good ta be preparet. Ya nevah know where da odd bush pop up. Now secuse me, I gotta go cut da heads offa da rose bushes.
DR. BROWNE
Keep your eyes to the ground!
MACCABBEE
Right! Da moles!
DR. BROWNE
The moles.
MACCABBEE
Ef I see one, Doctah, I chop it in two.
DR. BROWNE
That’s the spirit.
(Maccabbee goes.)
DR. BROWNE
Where is my Spanish guest?
DAME DOROTHY
I asked her to wait a moment. Thomas, the gravedigger’s come . . . uh, he’s here. Here’s the gravedigger. Mr. Pumpkin.
(Dorothy opens the door. Pumpkin enters.
Browne glares at Pumpkin a beat, then:)
DR. BROWNE
Oh, good. I can’t say I’ve been looking forward to this, Mr. Pumpkin, but I recognize a grave necessity.
Leave us, Dorothy.
DAME DOROTHY
Leave? Why?
DR. BROWNE
A man’s interment is an intimate matter. Join the others. Search for the Will. I can hear them now, dismantling the library.
DAME DOROTHY
You want to hurt me, Thomas.
DR. BROWNE
I used to, very much. And I believe I did, on occassion.
DAME DOROTHY
More than once.
DR. BROWNE
I’ll be dead. You can remarry.
DAME DOROTHY
I don’t care about the Will. I want nothing from you.
DR. BROWNE
Then you won’t be disappointed.
(Dorothy goes. Browne watches her leave and then:)
DR. BROWNE
She’s a good person. Too good. No judgment. None at all. I mean, look who she married. See my point?
PUMPKIN
Yes, sir. I do.
(Little pause.)
DR. BROWNE
(Glaring at Pumpkin, trying to make him squirm) I want to be buried deep. Very deep but . . . not too deep. Apart from the mob, but not in a lonely place. Avoid the usual clichés—no willow trees, though I’d like a view, for summer evenings. No pine box. Flimsy. Use that urn. Toss out the previous occupant, or better yet, throw me in there with him and let us mingle. (Little pause) No markers, or, well, maybe just a little unpretentious stone. Maybe . . . “Here lies Sir Thomas Browne, scientist.” “Here lies Sir Thomas Browne, who made his wife miserable.” “Here lies Sir Thomas Browne, no grandchildren . . . BUT A GENIUS! SHAKESPEARE HAD NOTHING ON HIM!” (He is now bellowing at Pumpkin with wild hatred and immense pride) Or maybe an obelisk! Or a pyramid! A pyre! A sea burial, or . . . GET OUT OF HERE!
PUMPKIN
I han’t following dis, Dr. Browne.
DR. BROWNE
(Great delirious newfound certainty!) I don’t need you, wretch! I’M NOT GOING TO DIE. It isn’t . . . conceivable! I can’t . . . IMAGINE it.
