Lord Rochester is Dying: A Comedy
(being a cont. serialisation)
Act 2 Scene 1
Great Hall, Woodstock Lodge (near Oxford), the Rochester country estate.
ANNE WILMOT, DOWAGER COUNTESS OF ROCHESTER: I have a letter, post haste, from Baptiste. They arrive shortly. He says my son is very ill, but he gives no detail.
REVEREND DR ROBERT PARSONS: I fear the worst, your ladyship.
ANNE WILMOT: So you play the physician now, Parsons
PARSONS (sanctimoniously): I refer to his spiritual condition. I’m told that he’s fallen under the influence of the Reverend Burnet, a fashionable preacher from Scotland. Burnet’s specialty is ministering to pox-ridden whores discarded by the royal court.
ANNE WILMOT (aside, sotto voce): Apart from the matter of gender, my son qualifies admirably for such ministrations. To Parsons: A soul can be rescued up to the last breath of its mortal frame. That’s your job, as my chaplain. That moment will likely come soon, so grievously has John abused his body. He was conceived here – a small cavalier victory in Cromwell’s England; he was born here – on All Fool’s Day; and he will assuredly die here, even before he has attained Our Saviour’s span of years. He must depart this life as a Christian in good standing with his Maker. I cannot live with the thought that irreligion sullies the Rochester name.
PARSONS (obsequiously): Your ladyship has striven ceaselessly in her son’s interest.
ANNE WILMOT: What choice did I have? When husbands go to war, women of the gentry like myself are obliged to occupy manly roles. To keep my son’s birthright intact, I employed every trick and ruse, manly and womanly, to fend off my grasping Puritan neighbours. I was, in all but name, landlord, agent, and attorney of the estate. I learned the arts of litigating, cajoling, and flattering – and I prevailed. These arts have their value in peacetime, too. While my son was playing the ardent suitor to his bride-to-be, I was extracting a respectable dowry from her miserly guardians. Not an easy task especially when John tried to force the issue by abducting Elizabeth, and as a consequence found himself confined, by the king’s orders, in the Tower of London, until his ardour had cooled.
PARSONS: Such labours for an ingrate son, a hardened libertine, a very Lucifer.
ANNE WILMOT (sharply): You forget your station, Reverend Parsons! He remains my son in every circumstance. Fallen angel might fit the case, but his face still bears some marks of innocence, at least in his mother’s eyes.
PARSONS: I most humbly beg your ladyship’s pardon.
Enter Elizabeth Wilmot, Countess of Rochester.
ELIZABETH WILMOT: Any news of John?
ANNE WILMOT: He arrives very soon, my dear. He enclosed this letter for you.
Elizabeth takes letter and reads [Rochester’s voice]:
I am, by fate, slave to your will.
And shall be most obedient still.
To show my love, I will compose ye,
For your fair finger’s ring, a posy,
In which shall be expressed my duty.
And how I’ll be forever true t’ ye.
With low-made legs and sugared speeches,
Yielding to your fair bum the breeches,
I’ll show myself, in all I can,
Your faithful, humble servant,
John
ELIZABETH WILMOT: Whimsical husband. Gallantry in the face of calamity. It’s the prospect of serenity that agitates him.
ANNE WILMOT: He was such a docile and obedient child…
PARSONS: But with demons lurking within…
ELIZABETH WILMOT: Which you no doubt would like to exorcise.
PARSONS: Modesty forbids, ma’am; but there are experts of good reputation.
ELIZABETH WILMOT: I thought exorcism was a specialty of the Catholic priesthood. Don’t tell me you’ve strayed into that camp, now, Reverend Parsons.
PARSONS: No, your ladyship. I was referring to fervent and continuous bedside praying, with laying on of hands, by trained Protestant clergy. The results, the expulsion of Satan’s demonic agents, surpass those dubiously claimed by Catholic exorcists. There are many such cases attested to.
ELIZABETH WILMOT: And I mistakenly thought we were now living in enlightened times. My husband needs gentle ministration for his mind and body, not spiritual trickery. I would be obliged if you kept your fervent friends at a safe distance. I go now to prepare for John’s arrival.
(exit Elizabeth)
PARSONS: I fear her ladyship doesn’t like me, your ladyship.
ANNE WILMOT: She’s young; you must try to be accommodating. After all you’re well-practised. When you were a smooth-faced curate, I recall, you delivered sweet homilies on the beauty of holiness and universal salvation. As the Puritan cause triumphed, you became a fierce Calvinist, very strong on predestination and the popish crimes of the bishops. Now, lo and behold, you’ve become a moderate man again, exquisitely adjusted to the temper of the times; though I warrant you could still conjure up the horrors of hell-fire should the need arise. With such experience in face-changing, surely you can present an agreeable face to the young mistress of the house.
PARSONS: I endeavour to follow your ladyship’s wishes in all things.
Hubbub outside. Rochester enters assisted by Baptiste who deposits him on a chaise lounge.
BAPTISTE (TO ANNE): He’s very ill ma’am. He has a hectic fever with delirium. He’s in terrible pain. He’s pissing blood and solid matter. And he has an ulcer, oozing puss, the size and shape of a large birch leaf on his back.
ANNE WILMOT: Oh God have mercy on us. He’s not long for this world, but we can at least ease his exit from it. Fetch the laudanum, Baptiste; and get the doctor. And he needs ass’s milk to soothe the bladder. Find a she ass quickly.
BAPTISTE: Yes, your ladyship. Rushes off while Anne Wilmot hovers over her son.
ROCHESTER (barely conscious): Mother, will you relieve the pain now please?
ANNE WILMOT: We’ll do our best John.
