HIS SOUL
For writing. For murdering the song.
DR. BROWNE
I recorded it for posterity!
HIS SOUL
“Posterity.” I hate that word almost as much as I hate you. Immortality is what you’d like to say but can’t, because you know—
DR. BROWNE
Know what?
HIS SOUL
You betrayed me, you with your filthy little wishes and soiled little dreams and your innumerable, incomprehensible fears! I sang as angels do, golden lifting tones on an unending breath, floating music without inception or decline, music that makes a lie of time, a lie of death, of grief or loss or pain, music free of wall or membrane, top or bottom, direction, shape or meaning. I sang of Immortality and you—
DR. BROWNE
Wrote something else.
HIS SOUL
Yes.
(Little pause.)
DR. BROWNE
My words betrayed me. I wrote . . . what I did not mean to write. I saw the door of Heaven swing wide open, a miracle to see, but when I described what I saw inside, the room had changed, it . . . was rather empty, and . . .
(His Soul has gone.)
DR. BROWNE
Do you hear me? Hello!?
Pity me! You should! The world made me, the word betrayed me, I never wanted to see . . . You’ll be sorry . . . when I’m gone. You will.
(Maccabbee enters, hears Browne talking to himself.)
MACCABBEE
Dr. Browne?
DR. BROWNE
Leave me alone. What do you want from me?
MACCABBEE
I stranglet dem chickens.
DR. BROWNE
(Horrified) You . . . What?
MACCABBEE
Like you instructet. I stranglet dem poor chickens.
DR. BROWNE
Well, what do you want me to do? Weep for them? Mourn for them? Why don’t you just strangle me too, and let’s end this farce, and Babbo can stuff me with persimmons and hazelnuts and roast me in the oven.
MACCABBEE
Dr. Browne, you wannet me ta kill dem birds, ’n’ now—
DR. BROWNE
What were the results?
MACCABBEE
Well, before dey was pecking inna dirt ’n’ sayet chicken words,’n’ aftah dey just lay still.
DR. BROWNE
Clod! Ape! Answer my question! Did you weigh them?
MACCABBEE
Chicken A weighet three ’n’ halfet pound before strangleta-tion,’n’ aftah, three ’n’ halfet pound.
Chicken B weighet five pounds before, ’n’ aftah weighet five pounds.
DR. BROWNE
(Calling out to his absent Soul) Do you hear that! Identical!
MACCABBEE
I know dat, I’m da one did da strangling.
Chicken C weighet four pounds before I strangle it, ’n’ aftah . . . Weighet eight pounds.
DR. BROWNE
Eight pounds?
MACCABBEE
Ah, yup.
DR. BROWNE
It got . . . heavier?
MACCABBEE
Verra wirret, huh?
DR. BROWNE
You’re in error. Weigh it again.
MACCABBEE
Han’t mistaket. I bin careful. Bin heavier.
DR. BROWNE
IT CANNOT CONCEIVABLY WEIGH MORE DEAD THAN . . .
(Babbo enters with the Abbess, disguised as the Weaver of the Shrouds. She wears a half-mask that transforms her into a frightening looking old woman, dressed in gray rags. She is virtually identical to the The Washer, as if they had bought their masks at the same shop.)
BABBO
Secuse me, Doctah. Dis old lady wannet ta see if you bin inna market for a winding sheet—
Get her out of here!
(He is stricken with a terrible terrible pain in his gut)
Oh mercy. What was that? Something . . . ripped.
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
I bin a weaver a shrouds, Doctah Browne, I come from verra far away ta help out wif da unraveling.
DR. BROWNE
I don’t need help, I . . .
Oh God, help. I think . . . I’m not doing well at all . . . oh.
MACCABBEE
Ya want me ta get a doctah, Doctah?
DR. BROWNE
(Pain!) OH! OH!
MACCABBEE
I translate dat means yes.
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
I’ll just set up my knitting ’n’ commencet da shroud. I only need da measurements.
(She approaches Browne with a measuring string. He recoils, completely terrified of her, and in horrible pain.)
DR. BROWNE
No shroud! Leave!
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
But Doctah, I bin reassuret; I knit, ’n’ dah clicka my needles—
BABBO
’N’ da sayet a da psalms—
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
’N’ da psalms, sure, bin verra reassuret. Now . . . (Again with the string) You know da twenny-third psalm, fer instance?
DR. BROWNE
(Physical agony, terror!) NO CLICKS! NO PSALMS! Not for me you hyena, go prey on someone else’s—
(Death enters, eating a chicken leg.)
DR. BROWNE
(Physical agony, much much more terror!!) Oh, dear God. You.
(To the Weaver) What was that psalm you mentioned?
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
Da twenny-third.
DR. BROWNE
Let’s hear it.
(Browne lies back, still in horrible pain.)
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
Da Lord bin my shepert; I han’t go wantet.
He make me restet inna green pastrahs,
He leadet me ta still watahs,
’N’ restoret my soul.
(His Soul sits up. Death finishes the meat, chews the bone, licks his fingers.)
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
’N’ even ef I bin walket through da valley a da shadda a death, I fearet no hevil.
(Death goes. His Soul sinks. Maccabbee enters with Dogwater.)
MACCABBEE
Here da doctah.
DR. DOGWATER
Buh-Browne? I . . . Are you . . . oh my, you are. Guh-good people, the time has come, let us puh-puh-puh-pray.
(He kneels, everyone kneels with him.)
DR. BROWNE
(Very faint, very weak) Maccabbee.
(Maccabbee goes to him.)
DR. BROWNE
This isn’t the doctor I had in mind.
DR. DOGWATER
Our f-father, who art in Heaven, look down, show mercy, on this, your wretched but faithful servant in his final hour, and show him the face of your eternal love—
BABBO
(Simultaneously) Dear Gawd, Dr. Browne bin coming inta yer bosmet, ’n’ dose of us who lovet him on earf ask you to hopen a place fer him in da hops a Heaven. He bin mostly a ceerible soul, got his faults like evahbody, ’n’ you musset be used to faults, you made so many of dem—
MACCABBEE
(Simultaneously, a bit louder than the others) Our fathah who art in Heaven, fergive dose who trespasset against us. Uhh . . . I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, I know not why, I cannot tell, but dis I know, ’n’ know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell. I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, oh bag a guts go burn in Hell, I—
(Sotto voce, under the above hubbub, the Abbess tries to sneak in the Extreme Unction, in Latin.)
DR. DOGWATER
Wh-what was that?
(Silence.)
DR. DOGWATER
(Silence. Still on his knees, Dogwater walks toward the Abbess.)
DR. DOGWATER
Cuh-come on, I duh-did. Who was praying in Luh-Latin? You. Old wuh-woman.
THE WEAVER/THE ABBESS OF X
Ah, yoop?
DR. DOGW
ATER
Who are you?
BABBO
She bin da shroud weaver, Dr. Dogwater.
DR. DOGWATER
She looks fah-fah-familiar. In a fuh-funny way. Cuh-come here.
(The Abbess, on her knees, starts walking away from Dogwater, who, on his knees, pursues.
Dame Dorothy rushes in, sees them kneeling.)
DAME DOROTHY
Oh my God, he’s dead.
DR. DOGWATER
Huh-he is?
(Everyone rushes to the bed to check.)
DR. BROWNE
Not yet, but keep praying, I’m working on it.
(Schadenfreude enters.)
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Move aside, move aside, you’ll suffocate him.
(To Dogwater) Please, sir, you’re crowding my patient.
DR. DOGWATER
He’s my pah-pah-parishioner.
Tuh-Thomas, I must speak, and in my vuh-voice you should hear not only muh-me, but the cuh-cuh-community of shareholders I represent, and your wuh-wife and your chuh-children—
DR. BROWNE
Children! Dorothy did the children come?
(To Dogwater) Late as usual, late for everything, heel-draggers, lag-behinds—if they dawdle too much they’ll miss my demise.
DAME DOROTHY
You wrote them such furious letters, summoning them. I’m sure they’ll come.
(Dogwater tries to interject.)
DR. BROWNE
Half my children died in infancy. Those are the ones I loved. The others grew difficult. Their mother and I made thirteen of them.
DAME DOROTHY
Fourteen.
DR. DOGWATER
Your children, whom you love tenderly, and—
DR. BROWNE
Did they ever appreciate me? Ever show me gratitude? Ever produce grandchildren? HAH!
The line comes to a dead halt. My eldest son. Michael. An honored member of the Royal Academy of Science. My experiments they never accepted; I’m told they await his reports eagerly. I’m so proud. He used to send copies to me, but then he . . . stopped.
DAME DOROTHY
(Controlled fury) You told him they were dull.
DR. BROWNE
(The same back at her) They were.
DAME DOROTHY
(The same back at him) Well then, he stopped sending them. You got what you wanted.
DR. DOGWATER
(Exploding) MUH-MAY I PUH-PLEASE FUH-FUH-FUH-FINISH!
(Silence.)
DR. DOGWATER
The Wuh-Will, Sir Thomas, I muh-must know where you puh-put it.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
I’d like to have a look at it myself, actually.
DR. DOGWATER
Y-you? May I ask whuh-why?
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Peruse the funeral arrangements. I want time to prepare.
DR. DOGWATER
Prepare whuh-what?
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
The eulogy.
DR. DOGWATER
The eul-lah-lah . . .
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Eu-lo-gy.
DR. BROWNE
Dorothy, please tell them all to go away.
DR. DOGWATER
Wuh-wait. Am I to uh-understand that yuh-you are to be the eulogist at the fah-funeral? Y-you?
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
I would imagine myself the likeliest candidate.
DR. DOGWATER
Suh-Sir Thomas, is this indeed the cuh-case?
DR. BROWNE
You can both eulogize me. Simultaneously. I won’t have to listen.
DAME DOROTHY
It’s time for everyone to leave. Now.
DR. DOGWATER
Nuh-no. You disappoint me, Suh-Sir Thomas. Not only have you abrogated your fuh-financial committments, but now you intend to abdicate your suh-spiritual commitments as well and allow yourself to be eu-eu-eulogized by a duh-damned hack Heh-Hessian physician?
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
Hack? You call me a hack?
DR. DOGWATER
Wuh-well, Browne isn’t suh-sterling evidence of your muh-medical competence, is he? Duh-doctors who know what they’re duh-doing are usually suh-spared eulogizing their puh-patients.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
He wasn’t killed by my treatments.
DR. DOGWATER
He wasn’t cuh-cured by them either.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
He probably grew that tumor sitting through too many fuh-fuh-four hour suh-suh-sermons, puh-puh-puh-Preacher.
(Deadly silence.)
DR. DOGWATER
(Hurt, with dignity) Duh-do you mock me? My ah-affliction? It doesn’t injure me, n-not a buh-bit. I nuh-know that stupid, simple men like yourself suh-snigger behind my back. You say, “What good’s a puh-preacher with a stuh-stutter?” You suh-sneer. But I remind you: Muh-muh-Moses stuttered. It is from God my stuh-stutter comes. With every huh-hitch and slip I fuh-feel his hot and angry love. Guh-God loves me. He loves my stuh-stutter. But what does he fuh-feel about you, Heh-Herr Doktor? Th-Thomas, this is what comes of your irresponsibility. I huh-hope you’re puh-pleased.
(He leaves.)
DAME DOROTHY
Oh dear.
DR. BROWNE
I seem to have lost center stage. May I make a small request?
DAME DOROTHY
What, Thomas?
DR. BROWNE
I want a bath.
I am . . . astonishingly malodorous. A blossom of putrescence.
DR. SCHADENFREUDE
I’d noticed. As though you’d begun to rot ahead of schedule.
DAME DOROTHY
No, Thomas, a bath would give you a chill.
DR. BROWNE
I wouldn’t mind a good shiver, one that comes from the temperature of water, rather than from . . . other things. I miss the little creature comforts: spring air, being thin, food, excrement. I would like a bath.
BABBO
You want I should get da sponge, Mrs. Browne, ’n’ da bastin?
DAME DOROTHY
You have other work to do.
BABBO
Ah, nope, da chickens been broastin and da tarts bin . . . (She screeches) Doctah! Da tart!
DAME DOROTHY
Babbo please stop babbling about chickens and tarts, have some sense of occasion.
BABBO
But I put da . . . da tart in da hoven and in da tart dere was a . . . was a . . . (She smacks herself in the head jar her memory)
DR. BROWNE
Dorothy she’s having a fit of some sort—
BABBO
Da Will! I HID DA WILL IN DA—
DR. BROWNE
Sssshhh!
DAME DOROTHY
The Will? She hid the Will?
DR. BROWNE
No, no, she means she “did my will”; the addled creature, her charming peasant patois, she’s incomprehensible. Go forth, Babbo, and roast. Spice, mince, jolly, jolly.