DAME DOROTHY
I have a dream almost every night. Thomas has died and his soul gone off to the judgment seat. And been damned, poor Thomas. He looks for hell, but he can’t find the entrance. Then he does find it, and it’s at the bottommost pit in the quarry. There’s a sinkhole, like a drain, small, and he slips down it and disappears. And sometimes the dream doesn’t end there. Sometimes I’m being pulled in after him.
PUMPKIN
’Tis silly.
DAME DOROTHY
Their cottages were burnt when the land was seized. They sleep in ditches.
None of the children will come home to see him die.
(From offstage there is a voice calling:)
DOGWATER
D-d-Dame D-Dorothy! Duh-duh-duh-Dame Duh-Dorothy!
PUMPKIN
Shit beans, it’s da pastor!
(They scramble to respectable dress and distance as Dogwater bursts in.)
DR. DOGWATER
Good morning, Dame Dorothy. How’s the puh-patient? Improving?
DAME DOROTHY
Quite the opposite.
DR. DOGWATER
Optimism, optimism—he’s resting puh-puh-peacefully.
DAME DOROTHY
He’s nearly dead.
DR. DOGWATER
Ah. Tuh-too bad. I hope he’s resigned.
Have you had a chuh-chance to look over those papers I left?
DAME DOROTHY
I’ve been preoccupied.
DR. DOGWATER
Yes, this is a tuh-trying time for you, I understand, but buh-business affairs press on, and not even the guh-grim reaper can hold them in abeyance. I suh-speak now, of course, not as your suh-spiritual adviser but as your fuh-future partner in commerce. The quarry expansion depends on your cuh-cooperation.
PUMPKIN
You bin expandet da quarry?
DR. DOGWATER
Huh-who are you?
PUMPKIN
Da new gravedigger, namet Pumpkin.
DR. DOGWATER
Aha. And you’re interested in quarrying, Mr. Pumpkin?
PUMPKIN
Ah, yup. I bin verra interested in da development a industry.
DR. DOGWATER
Splendid! And so you shuh-should be! A tuh-true man of the age! You’re a Protestant, of course.
PUMPKIN
Yessir, I always bin dat.
DR. DOGWATER
You see before you, Dame Duh-Dorothy, luh-living proof of my contention: that the vuh-violent and irruptive nah-nah-nature of these times is no cause for despair. Leave despair to the weak and the gah-gaseous, to the Catholics. You were born poor?
PUMPKIN
In da verra bogs a deprivation.
DR. DOGWATER
And now you’re a puh-puh-prospering gravedigger!
PUMPKIN
I han’t exactly prospering but—
DR. DOGWATER
But you’ll keep duh-digging till you reach your puh-pot of gold, right?
How rich do you thuh-think Sir Thomas Browne was, Puh-Pumpkin? Very rich?
PUMPKIN
Ah, yup.
DR. DOGWATER
Enormously rich?
DAME DOROTHY
Dr. Dogwater, this is hardly an appropriate time to be counting my husband’s money.
DR. DOGWATER
It’s instructive, Muh-Mrs. Browne. Pumpkin, this man was—uh, is extremely wealthy. You could bury the entire parish and nuh-not earn half of what he makes in one day just luh-lying here and letting his puh-puh-profits accumulate. He’s puh-practically muh-made of gold. Do you want to be rich like that, Pumpkin?
PUMPKIN
I haspire to dat, pastor, ef I work fer it—
DR. DOGWATER
Once we thought Heaven glowed with the light of divine fire, Dame Dorothy, but now we know—it glows with the shine of gold. In the fuh-firmament, a suh-sun of gold that makes men like this man tuh-twitch, and writhe, and work. You wuh-worry about expanding the quarry and dislocating squatters, but here is my argument made flesh—this man. Scrape the lichen from the rock, expose it to the rays of that muh-muh-metal sun, give it guh-gainful employment, and watch it grow into something more nuh-noble than suh-suh-scum.
PUMPKIN
So you gonna expandet da quarry?
DR. DOGWATER
I am not accustomed to discussing my business with hired help. Good day.
(Pause.)
PUMPKIN
I bin going. Pastor. I appreciatet da instructet. Missus.
(He goes.)
DAME DOROTHY
There was no cause for impoliteness, Dr. Dogwater, you shouldn’t have spoken so abruptly.
DR. DOGWATER
You have a suh-soft heart, Dame Dorothy, and that befits a wuh-woman, but after Sir Thomas is d . . . is d . . . d . . . d . . .
DAME DOROTHY
Dead.
DR. DOGWATER
. . . and keeping the cuh-company of angels in puh-paradise you will be chuh-chief shareholder in the Nuh-nuh-Norfolk and London Limestone Quarrying Company. And you will need a sterner, more ruh-rigorous mien. Your huh-husband lacked that. He hoarded gold, too timid in the muh-marketplace.
DAME DOROTHY
He was fearful of loss.
DR. DOGWATER
Wuh-well put. But God hates idle money as much as he hates idle men. Suh-Sir Thomas could not be muh-moved to reinvest in the buh-business. We hope his widow will—
DAME DOROTHY
Could we discuss this another time.
DR. DOGWATER
Of course. Thoughtless of me. After the fuh-funeral. Tomorrow, perhaps.
DAME DOROTHY
And we really don’t know if the shares have been left to me, or if they’ve been left to anyone at all. If there’s no Will—
DR. DOGWATER
If there’s no wuh-wuh . . . OF COURSE THERE’S A WUH-WILL. Uh isn’t there?
DAME DOROTHY
I have no idea. He loves making messes, leaving them behind.
DR. DOGWATER
Muh-much more than a muh-mess! The Buh-Book of the Apocalypse couldn’t compare. The cuh-crown will confiscate the entire estate, the cuh-quarry would become cuh-crown lands, the kuh-king, long may he reign, is a vuh-veritable muh-muh-Mammon, ah-ah-avaricious! He’s appropriating absolutely everything he can get his guh-greedy ruh-royal mitts on, we’ll all be ah-utterly utterly utterly destroyed if Browne dies without a Will! Puh-Panic! Puh-Panic! He’ll have to tell us where it is, or write a new one.
DAME DOROTHY
He won’t write anything anymore. He says the smell of ink makes him nauseous.
DR. DOGWATER
But Dame Dorothy he’s a writer.
DAME DOROTHY
Apparently no longer.
DR. DOGWATER
Duh-Dame Dorothy, this is no joke. We have to get him to tell us where he put the document
(Screaming very loudly) WHEN HE WAKES UP!
(Dr. Browne wakes with a start.)
DAME DOROTHY
Doctor Dogwater!
DR. BROWNE
Am I dead?
DAME DOROTHY
No, Thomas.
HIS SOUL
(Appearing) NO! NO! NO! (It disappears again)
DR. BROWNE
There are moles tunneling underneath this house. I can hear them, burrowing. They are undermining the foundation. Fetch the mole dogs. Where’s the gravedigger? He was here. Has the urn arrived?
DAME DOROTHY
Not yet.
DOGWATER
Uh-urn?
DR. BROWNE
Excavated. In the digging. Right there in the quarry, a mound of some sort. An urn in the heart of it. Containing hair, teeth and bones. No idea whose remains. Saxon, maybe. Roman, perhaps. Perhaps earlier even than that . . .
(To Dogwater) Who are you? Dorothy, who is this man?
DAME DOROTHY
It’s Dr. Dogwater, Thomas, you know Dr. Dogw—
DR. BRO
WNE
A doctor? Can he do something about the moles? Is this your leech?
(Browne plucks Schadenfreude’s leech, now swollen, from beneath his nightshirt and tosses it to Dogwater, who catches it, then realizes what he’s holding.)
DR. DOGWATER
Luh-luh-luh-LEEEECH!
(Dogwater flings the leech into the audience.)
DAME DOROTHY
Thomas, it’s Dr. Dogwater, your pastor, your old, old friend.
DR. DOGWATER
And buh-business puh-puh-partner. L-Leviticus Dogwater.
(Browne glares at Dogwater without recognition.)
DR. BROWNE
I never saw you before.
DAME DOROTHY
Thomas!
DOGWATER
Oh, d-dear, he’s l-lost his wuh-wits.
DR. BROWNE
I studied embryology with Fabricius in Padua, Doctor whoever-you-are; the great Fabricius, did you know that? The chick in the egg. The baby in the . . . the genesis of things.
I was a physician but I stuck to research. I couldn’t cure people. Christ did that, or so they say. Well, I’m sure he did. I couldn’t. I wrote things . . .
My experiments led me from embryology to engineering to excavation to urns and my current fascination with burial . . . customs.
(Little pause)
Unearth the urn,
pop it open
with a pick,
remove the skull:
crack it, brown,
like a nut, and
in the bowl, in the
seat
of the soul . . .
not even dust.
Just the tattered white filaments
of some spidery event.
(Little pause)
It is impossible
to conclude
anything.
I know who you are, Dogwater.
DR. DOGWATER
Hah-how are you today, Sir Thomas?
DR. BROWNE
Mortal.
DR. DOGWATER
Muh-muh-muh—
DR. BROWNE
And fading. I cannot shit. All plugged up; no place to go.
DR. DOGWATER
I will puh-pray for you.
DR. BROWNE
I’d sell my soul for a bowel movement.
HIS SOUL
You would! I know you would! You never valued me!
DR. DOGWATER
Tuh-Thomas, we were just tah-talking and wuh-wondering if your wuh-Will had buh-been completed.
DR. BROWNE
My Will.
DR. DOGWATER
Y-yes. Nuh-now is the time to be letting guh-go of worldly things, tuh-turning your thoughts to suh-salvation and the uh-unimaginable delights of puh-puh-puh-paradise.
(His Soul rattles its chains wistfully.)
DR. BROWNE
Paradise.
HIS SOUL
Paradise! You keep me from paradise, you swollen stinkbag, wormfood—die!
(It goes away.)
DR. BROWNE
You want to know if I’ve made a Will.
DR. DOGWATER
Yes.
DR. BROWNE
Did I, Dorothy?
DAME DOROTHY
I think so, yes.
DR. BROWNE
(To Dogwater) Yes.
DR. DOGWATER
Guh-good. Nuh-now I—
DR. BROWNE
You want to know where the Will is.
DR. DOGWATER
Wuh-well, I—
DR. BROWNE
DR. DOGWATER
Tuh-Thomas, this is nah-nah-not a juh-joking mah-mah-mah—
DR. BROWNE
When I was a medical student in Padua, I often visited the Jewish Ghetto there. Because I wanted to know if it was true.
(Small pause.)
DR. DOGWATER
Wha . . . What’s true?
DR. BROWNE
If it was true what they say about old Jews dying.
Do you know what they say about old Jews dying?
DR. DOGWATER
Nah-nah—
DR. BROWNE
Dorothy, do you know?
DAME DOROTHY
Where’s the Will, Thomas? Dr. Dogwater wants to see it.
DR. BROWNE
They say when an old Jew is about to die, and he wants to be left . . . alone . . . with his Deity, he turns his face to the wall.
(Dr. Browne does this. There is silence.)
DR. BROWNE
The other Jews understand this to be a sign that they should absent themselves.
DAME DOROTHY
Thomas—
DR. BROWNE
And they do. They leave.
(Dame Dorothy and Dr. Dogwater look at each other.)
DAME DOROTHY
Perhaps we should leave.
DR. DOGWATER
But he isn’t Jewish.
(Babbo bursts in, carrying an unbaked tart.)
BABBO
Secuse me again, Mrs. Browne, but dem three knacky women in da kitchen bin movet to da pantry now ’n’ be coombin over da silver ’n’one stufftet halfta da tea service in her pockets.
DR. DOGWATER
Thieves!
DAME DOROTHY
Not thieves, just three harmless ranter women . . .
DR. DOGWATER
Ruh-ranters!? What are ruh-ranters doing in your house?
BABBO
Well right now dey bin stealet evahthing dat han’t bin screwed down ’r locked up.
DAME DOROTHY
They were hungry, it was cold last night, I . . .
DR. DOGWATER
A sterner mien, Mrs. Browne! Ruh-ranters are debauched heretics. Cuh-come. We’ll see to this puh-pillaging together. Buh-buh-Browne, your house is in duh-duh-disarray. Remember, God expects Man to d . . . to d . . . to d . . .
DR. BROWNE
To die.
DR. DOGWATER
Just so. In a responsible and ah-orderly fah-fah-fashion.
(Dogwater and Dame Dorothy go. Babbo starts to follow them.)
DR. BROWNE
Halt, imponderably old and faithful retainer.
BABBO
Me?
DR. BROWNE
(Searching under the mattress) Who else? I want you to hide something.
(He produces the Will, a slender document wax-sealed, lawyer-stamped, wrapped in black ribbon and bordered in black.)
BABBO
Bin you writet another book?
DR. BROWNE
God forbid.
BABBO
Hamen ta dat.
DR. BROWNE
My Will. Everyone’s clamoring for a copy, it’s the most popular thing I ever wrote. Hide it, Babbo, I’ll let you know when it’s wanted. Hide it well.
(Babbo crams the Will inside the tart.)