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.
IF I DIE . . . THE WORLD ENDS! And . . . (The certainty is dissipating, the hatred of Pumpkin remains) And we’ll have no need of gravediggers then.
PUMPKIN
Ef dat happens, Dr. Browne, I findet another job. I bin verra . . .
DR. BROWNE
Flexible? Jack of all trades? Descendant of a sturdy race?
PUMPKIN
I bin dat fer sure.
DR. BROWNE
Ambitious.
PUMPKIN
Verra.
DR. BROWNE
Tell her I died knowing.
No, don’t tell her anything.
I daresay you’ll end up running the whole works one day.
(Dorothy enters.)
PUMPKIN
Da works.
Dr. Browne. Mrs. Browne.
(He strides out, triumphant.)
DR. BROWNE
I don’t trust that boy, Dorothy. He’s tense.
DAME DOROTHY
But dependable.
DR. BROWNE
Don’t hate me, wife.
DAME DOROTHY
You did not live well upon this earth, Thomas. I never really wanted anything from you. And you leave behind you only a dreadful lot of woe.
(She goes.)
DR. BROWNE
(Considers that for a moment, and then, sadly) That’s probably true.
(Doña Estrelita enters carrying a small jeweled casket.)
DR. BROWNE
And what about you? What do you want?
DOÑA ESTRELITA
The English are supposed to be gracious.
DR. BROWNE
You’re an unexpected participant in these funeral games.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
I bring you trinkets, little toys.
DR. BROWNE
Trinkets.
You know me so well. Let me see.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
(Opening the casket, laying these things one by one in his lap) Torn scarlet lace.
A rosary.
A dry bit of blackroot.
DR. BROWNE
Explain these gifts.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
The scarlet lace. I wore it when I was young, attendant on my husband in the court of King James. The night I saw you for the first time. My weakness for men of learning.
DR. BROWNE
The winds that night. Drunkenness. They could barely keep the torches lit, the shutters banged like gunshot, the whole palace groaned.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
The rosary. I prayed for you till the silver beads tarnished black. And after you betrayed me, and fled from the scandal, I prayed for death.
DR. BROWNE
I prayed too.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
Faint heart, you never had the nerve.
The blackroot.
DR. BROWNE
Poison.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
Because prayers for death were insufficient . . .
I would have died for you. I bit my hands till they bled. I could have done it but . . . I survived and went home to Spain. And I have waited ever since . . .
DR. BROWNE
For what? Not for me, the wait’s not worth it.
DOÑA ESTRELITA
To wait . . . for hatred to turn to love again.
DR. BROWNE
I thought you’d come on a timber ship. To take me home.
(Pause.)
DOÑA ESTRELITA
I have.
(She goes.
Browne watches her go. His Soul sits up and watches her leave as well. Maccabbee enters, carrying a large goblet of bubbling poison.)
MACCABBEE
You bin live and awake?
Dis is . . . sumpin da doctah wannetya ta drink. He . . . uh, he said it bin fer yer cough.
DR. BROWNE
(Facing away from him, deeply sad) I haven’t got a cough.
MACCABBEE
Well, a ounce a prevention . . .
DR. BROWNE
Damn the doctor and his noxious drugs. Set it down somewhere.
MACCABBEE
Ah, come on, Doctah, open yer mouf ’n’ I’ll pour it in.
DR. BROWNE
(Turning suddenly on Maccabbee) I SAID SET IT DOWN, YOU NO-NOSE INSUBORDINATE, AND LEAVE ME BE.
(His rage causes another extremely painful intestinal explosion and tearing; Browne screams and clutches his side, holding tight to Estrelita’s little trinket casket.)
DR. BROWNE
I want peace. All I want is p . . .
(Schadenfreude and Dogwater burst into the room, each with a huge manuscript.)
DR. DOGWATER
(Placing his manuscript on Browne’s chest) A preliminary duh-draft of my eulogy.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
(Following suit) And mine.
DR. DOGWATER
Chuh-choose. Muh-my speech affirms the justice of God, the rewards of a luh-life of industry, and your impressive eagerness to enter into Puh-Puh-Paradise.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Mine’s a tastefully humorous recounting of the pathogenesis of your tumor.
DR. BROWNE
(Looking at the manuscripts) Such massive tomes. How can there possibly be so much to say about death?
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
I confess. I’ve been working on mine for a month.
DR. BROWNE
A month! I’ve only been ill three weeks!
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Call it a hunch . . .
DR. DOGWATER
Now about the state or your, uh, estate . . .
DR. BROWNE
Never fear. Babbo has the Will in safekeeping and will read it to the assembled bereaved after my . . .
(Babbo enters.)
BABBO
Secuse me, Dr. Browne, but . . .
DR. DOGWATER
Y-you have entrusted your Wuh-Will to your cuh-cuh-cuh-cook?
DR. BROWNE
A trusted family servant. She nursed me when I was a baby. She nursed my father when he was a baby.
BABBO
I nurset yer grandfather too, but he han’t bin no babbie, just lonely. He bin da most entertaining of da three.
DR. DOGWATER
Buh-buh-buh—
DR. BROWNE
Remain calm in the face of adversity, Dogwater. Take your example from me. Maccabbee, show the gentlemen out. Oh, and Schadenfreude. I’m not drinking that potion.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
What potion? I sent no potion.
DR. BROWNE
Maccabbee said . . .
MACCABBEE
Uh, no, I said da doctah sent it, but I han’t say which one.
DR. DOGWATER
Well I certainly didn’t send it.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
MACCABBEE
Right. It bin da other doctah.
DR. BROWNE
Another? Good God, there’s another doctor in this house?
MACCABBEE
A verra famous specialist. He couldn’t stay but he droppet da poison . . . I mean da potion off. Secuse me, Doctah. Dis way, Doctah. Doctah.
(They file out.)
DR. BROWNE
Babbo, what is that succulent aroma?
BABBO
Da chickens bin broasting like da souls a da damned.
(His Soul sinks again from view.)
DR. BROWNE
Here, consign these to the flames as well. Kindling.
(He hands Babbo the eulogies. Dorothy enters.)
DAME DOROTHY
Babbo, I apologize for . . .
BABBO
Da missus pinchet my tart. (She exits)
(Pause.)
DR. BROWNE
No more guests? No more people come to pay their respects, or demand pa
yment, or . . .
DAME DOROTHY
Only me.
DR. BROWNE
I want to be forgiven all my sins, wife. It’s very painful, burning.
DAME DOROTHY
There’s no burning after, I think it’s . . . a metaphor for something. You look dreadful.
DR. BROWNE
I am exceedingly taxed. I am completely terrified, you see.
DAME DOROTHY
I know.
I want to say good-bye, Thomas.
DR. BROWNE
No. Not you. No.
DAME DOROTHY
I’ll wait with you.
DR. BROWNE
For what?
DAME DOROTHY
I don’t know, I . . .
DR. BROWNE
For . . . Death.
I once sat down to write a meditation on Immortality. On the world free of death. Now there’s a thought. Hydriotaphia. It’s my best piece, it’s very good, I recommend it. It was at the hanging I first knew, really knew, the possibility of my own death. It was at that trial, when those women were hanged, when they . . . when it was my words that hanged them, I . . . first knew, then, that I would die, and . . .
Their faces were mottled purple, like plums, waxy. The wood creaked under the weight of their bodies.
And I hoped to build with golden words a ladder up to Heaven, and in my final hour I’d remember what I’d written, and ascend.
(He is getting weaker)
Oh God I am talking myself to death.
Where is my soul? Escaped?
All my life . . . my words sought paths unknown to me. Along hidden tributaries they flowed and reached . . . unforseen conclusions. The battering complicatedness of living, it’s . . . And there was no turning back. The light is always dying. A fire, wife, I can’t see you . . .
DAME DOROTHY
Here I am, Thomas. You look very far away.
DR. BROWNE
Dorothy, good-bye. The ship embarks at first wind. The mast and sails are gilded with blood, on seas of blood we sail, in search of prey. The nets hauled in by mighty hands, up from the red depths to the surface, up come the great black nets, full and heavy with the world’s riches, hauled to the stronghold, to the drybone bank of death, with a hiss and suck plucked from the waters, in a ruby mist, in a fine red rain. You . . . who must live through this . . . I pity you . . .
DAME DOROTHY
Thomas? THOMAS! Oh God, DOCTOR, DOCTOR!
(She runs out. His Soul sits up dazedly. Death enters, carrying his knife.)
DEATH
I’ve delayed too long; I must accomplish it. I weep for you, Thomas, this will hurt.
DR. BROWNE
Stay away from me, I won’t have you touch me, I’m afraid of you, your knife . . .
DEATH
I need no tools. (He drops the knife) I have my hands. There is no mystery to this. It’s ugly. A simple murder . . .
DR. BROWNE
I gave you my hand once, I was a child, how was I to know what you had in mind, that you’d leave me behind, alone in the forest, not deliver me out of the house of bondage but abandon me here to live in the valley of bones—traitor! Traitor! You never intended to save your boy!
(Death places his hands around Browne’s neck.)
DEATH
Words sometimes are not enough. My hands are more expressive.
DR. BROWNE
The hands of the silk merchant were delicate hands, used to spooling fine silk thread and not snapping it. I remember a soft caress, once, oh please, PLEASE, release me . . . I can’t move . . .
DEATH
No.
Listen.
The machines in the quarry. Digging deep.
Boom. Booom. Booom. Boooom.
(With each “boom” Death tightens his grip on Dr. Browne’s throat. Browne struggles wildly, horrible sounds, and then falls limp. It is violent and ugly. Finally, Dr. Browne is dead.
Death sighs, picks up the knife, looks at the body. He pries open Browne’s mouth. Removing the Will from his coat pocket, Death folds it into a small square, places it inside Browne’s mouth, and then gently pushes his mouth closed.)
DEATH
Thy Will be done.
(Death leaves.)
HIS SOUL
Good-bye.
(Maccabbee rushes in.)
MACCABBEE
Doctah? Doctah? WAKET UP!
Ah Christ . . . He . . . he bin dead fer real! (Furious) He died before I bin able ta kill him!
(His Soul wanders out from behind the bed, almost drunkenly, happy.)
HIS SOUL
(Looking down, dazed) Look. I’ve got LEGS.
MACCABBEE
I tried!
HIS SOUL
(Looking curiously about the room) Yeah, yeah . . .
MACCABBEE
I tried my best!
(His Soul sees the goblet of poison.)
HIS SOUL
I need a drink!
(It goes toward the goblet.)
MACCABBEE
Dat bin a mistaket.
HIS SOUL
(Picking up the goblet) Shut up.
(His Soul drinks) Mmmmm.
MACCABBEE
I tried! You saw!
HIS SOUL
Look! Legs!
(It exits toward the kitchen.)
MACCABBEE
BROWNE! YOU DIED TOO SOON! COME BACK! COME BACK!
(He sinks to his knees at the foot of Browne’s bed. Brokenly) MY NOSE! MY NOSE!
Act Five
POST MORTEM
Black Night, Candlelight
The bed is stripped, covered in black, the room draped in mourning crepe. His Soul is sitting in a corner of the room, next to a pile of soiled bed linens. It is happily watching, smoking a cigarette and sipping from the goblet of poison.
Seated on the bed, Babbo is at work, sewing up the body of Browne in the shroud.
BABBO
(Singing:)
Dat old monstrah’s come ’n’ gone
’N’ da babbie sleepet.
Dat old monstrah’s come ’n’ gone
’N’ da babbie sleepet.
Dat old monstrah’s took his fill;
’N’ da babbie sleepet still
Nevah more ta waket.
Nevah more ta waket.
(She puts coins on his eyes, gathers up the shroud and, as she finishes the stitching, she tells a story, a bedtime story for a young child.)
BABBO
Oncet upon a time, dere bin an old woman, poor ’n’ tired a life, ’n’ God curset her wif a babbie though she han’t food ta feed herself. ’N’ she hiket down to da road, where da poor people trampet, ’n’ sits bya side a da road ’n’ say:
“Da first one passes by here bin dis kid’s godfather, ’n’ I han’t caret who it bin.”
’N’ God come strollet by ’n’ say, “I wanna be da godfather.” But she rejeck God, causet she bin harful mad at him fer cursing her wif da kid inna first place.
’N’ den da Devil come by ’n’ express simila sentiments, offrin ta be da kid’s godfather. But she rejeck da Devil too causet he han’t nuffin ta offret except trouble, so she rejeck him.