George Bernard Shaw a penn State Electronic Classics Series Publication

self) or an upright horsedealer! (Uncle Titus snarls at him in
rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (Uncle William, ut-
terly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? Would that
show that King George meant business—ha?
ANDERSON 
(perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he is
only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes her
out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except
Essie, who remains near Richard.)
RICHARD 
(boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of
you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil’s
house; and make a fight for freedom? (They scramble out,
Christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) Ha
ha! Long live the devil! (To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is following
them) What mother! are you off too?

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24
The Devil’s Disciple
MRS. DUDGEON 
(deadly pale, with her hand on her heart
as if she had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My
dying curse! (She goes out.)
RICHARD 
(calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha ha
ha!
ESSIE 
(anxiously). Mayn’t I stay?
RICHARD 
(turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh
yes: you may stay. (He turns excitedly away again and shakes
his fist after them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs down. Essie
seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He starts and looks
at it.) Tears! The devil’s baptism! (She falls on her knees, sob-
bing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, saying) Oh yes, you
may cry that way, Essie, if you like.
ACT II
Minister Anderson’s house is in the main street of
Websterbridge, not far from the town hall. To the eye of the
eighteenth century New Englander, it is much grander than
the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons; but it is so plain itself
that a modern house agent would let both at about the same
rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen
fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable
iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting,
and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of
buttered toast. The door, between the fireplace and the cor-
ner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is made
of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. The table is a kitchen
table, with a treacle colored cover of American cloth, chapped
at the corners by draping. The tea service on it consists of
two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with milk
jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly
a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the
table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square
half pound block of butter in a crock. The big oak press

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25
GB Shaw
facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use
and storage, not for ornament; and the minister’s house coat
hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is out; for
when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there. His big
riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual
place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution
of the minister’s kitchen, dining room and drawing room
into three separate apartments has not yet taken place; and
so, from the point of view of our pampered period, he is no
better off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs.
Anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dud-
geon. To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with
reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no
poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not
directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an affec-
tionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in short,
that life is as easy at the minister’s house as it is hard at the
farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and
however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making
her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it.
The outward and visible signs of her superior social preten-
sions are a drugget on the floor, a plaster ceiling between the
timbers and chairs which, though not upholstered, are stained
and polished. The fine arts are represented by a mezzotint
portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a copperplate of
Raphael’s St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo presenta-
tion clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of minia-
tures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths,
and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature
of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole
width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up
it to serve as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats,
standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough
to accommodate two people easily. On the whole, it is rather
the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in
struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip
Webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no
genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for
the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the
window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm,

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26
The Devil’s Disciple
windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the
quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthen-
ware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her self-con-
scious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and fright-
ened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The
first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through
the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed
from a sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in,
wrapped in a very wet cloak.
JUDITH 
(running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last!
(She attempts to embrace him.)
ANDERSON 
(keeping her off). Take care, my love: I’m wet.
Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to