George Bernard Shaw a penn State Electronic Classics Series Publication

self again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother).
Well, it’s not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown we found
him ill in bed. He didn’t know us at first. The minister sat up
with him and sent me away. He died in the night.
MRS. DUDGEON 
(bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I
do think this is hard on me—very hard on me. His brother,
that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the pub-
lic gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at
home where his duty was, with his own family, goes after
him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After send-
ing this girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her shawl
vexedly over her ears.) It’s sinful, so it is; downright sinful.

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7
GB Shaw
CHRISTY 
(with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). I
think it’s going to be a fine morning, after all.
MRS. DUDGEON 
(railing at him). A fine morning! And
your father newly dead! Where’s your feelings, child?
CHRISTY 
(obstinately). Well, I didn’t mean any harm. I sup-
pose a man may make a remark about the weather even if his
father’s dead.
MRS. DUDGEON 
(bitterly). A nice comfort my children
are to me! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that’s
left his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains,
the scum of the earth!
Someone knocks.
CHRISTY 
(without moving). That’s the minister.
MRS. DUDGEON 
(sharply). Well, aren’t you going to let
Mr. Anderson in?
Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries her
face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome
with grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the minister,
Anthony Anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine
of about 50, with something of the authority of his profession in
his bearing. But it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened
by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite
thorouqhgoing other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy man,
too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth
cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. No doubt an excellent par-
son, but still a man capable of making the most of this world,
and perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better
with it than a sound Presbyterian ought.
ANDERSON 
(to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dud-
geon whilst he takes off his cloak). Have you told her?
CHRISTY
. She made me. (He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs
across to the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to
sleep.)
Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he hangs
his cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her eyes and
looks up at him.
ANDERSON
. Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily
upon you.
MRS. DUDGEON 
(with intensely recalcitrant resignation).
It’s His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think
it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and
remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being

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8
The Devil’s Disciple
hanged?—and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did.
ANDERSON 
(gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON
. Timothy never acknowledged him as
his brother after we were married: he had too much respect
for me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a selfish
wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy hanged,
do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must
bear my cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended.
ANDERSON 
(very grave, coming down to the fire to stand