CONFUCIUS. It is socially impossible not to do what everybody else does. One must die at the usual time.
BARNABAS. Of course. A simple point of honour.
CONFUCIUS. Not at all. A simple necessity.
BURGE-LUBIN. Well, I'm hanged if I see it. I should jolly well live for ever if I could.
THE ARCHBISHOP. It is not so easy as you think. You, Mr Chief Secretary, have grasped the difficulties of the position. Let me remind you, Mr President, that I was over eighty before the 1969 Act for the Redistribution of Income entitled me to a handsome retiring pension. Owing to my youthful appearance I was prosecuted for attempting to obtain public money on false pretences when I claimed it. I could prove nothing; for the register of my birth had been blown to pieces by a bomb dropped on a village church years before in the first of the big modern wars. I was ordered back to work as a man of forty, and had to work for fifteen years more, the retiring age being then fifty-five.
BURGE-LUBIN. As late as fifty-five! How did people stand it?
THE ARCHBISHOP. They made difficulties about letting me go even then, I still looked so young. For some years I was in continual trouble. The industrial police rounded me up again and again, refusing to believe that I was over age. They began to call me The Wandering Jew. You see how impossible my position was. I foresaw that in twenty years more my official record would prove me to be seventy-five; my appearance would make it impossible to believe that I was more than forty-five; and my real age would be one hundred and seventeen. What was I to do? Bleach my hair? Hobble about on two sticks? Mimic the voice of a centenarian? Better have killed myself.
BARNABAS. You ought to have killed yourself. As an honest man you were entitled to no more than an honest man's expectation of life.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I did kill myself. It was quite easy. I left a suit of clothes by the seashore during the bathing season, with documents in the pockets to identify me. I then turned up in a strange place, pretending that I had lost my memory, and did not know my name or my age or anything about myself. Under treatment I recovered my health, but not my memory. I have had several careers since I began this routine of life and death. I have been an archbishop three times. When I persuaded the authorities to knock down all our towns and rebuild them from the foundations, or move them, I went into the artillery, and became a general. I have been President.
BURGE-LUBIN. Dickenson?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes.
BURGE-LUBIN. But they found Dickenson's body: its ashes are buried in St Paul's.
THE ARCHBISHOP. They almost always found the body. During the bathing season there are plenty of bodies. I have been cremated again and again. At first I used to attend my own funeral in disguise, because I had read about a man doing that in an old romance by an author named Bennett, from whom I remember borrowing five pounds in 1912. But I got tired of that. I would not cross the street now to read my latest epitaph.
The Chief Secretary and the President look very glum. Their incredulity is vanquished at last.
BURGE-LUBIN. Look here. Do you chaps realize how awful this is? Here we are sitting calmly in the presence of a man whose death is overdue by two centuries. He may crumble into dust before our eyes at any moment.
BARNABAS. Not he. He'll go on drawing his pension until the end of the world.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Not quite that. My expectation of life is only three hundred years.
BARNABAS. You will last out my time anyhow: that's enough for me.
THE ARCHBISHOP [coolly] How do you know?
BARNABAS [taken aback] How do I know!
THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes: how do you know? I did not begin even to suspect until I was nearly seventy. I was only vain of my youthful appearance. I was not quite serious about it until I was ninety. Even now I am not sure from one moment to another, though I have given you my reason for thinking that I have quite unintentionally committed myself to a lifetime of three hundred years.
BURGE-LUBIN. But how do you do it? Is it lemons? Is it Soya beans? Is it—
THE ARCHBISHOP. I do not do it. It happens. It may happen to anyone. It may happen to you.
BURGE-LUBIN [the full significance of this for himself dawning on him] Then we three may be in the same boat with you, for all we know?
THE ARCHBISHOP. You may. Therefore I advise you to be very careful how you take any step that will make my position uncomfortable.
BURGE-LUBIN. Well, I'm dashed! One of my secretaries was remarking only this morning how well and young I am looking. Barnabas: I have an absolute conviction that I am one of the—the—shall I say one of the victims?—of this strange destiny.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather formed the same conviction when he was between sixty and seventy. I knew him.
BURGE-LUBIN [depressed] Ah! But he died.
THE ARCHBISHOP. No.
BURGE-LUBIN [hopefully] Do you mean to say he is still alive?
THE ARCHBISHOP. No. He was shot. Under the influence of his belief that he was going to live three hundred years he became a changed man. He began to tell people the truth; and they disliked it so much that they took advantage of certain clauses of an Act of Parliament he had himself passed during the Four Years War, and had purposely forgotten to repeal afterwards. They took him to the Tower of London and shot him.
The apparatus rings.
CONFUCIUS [answering] Yes? [He listens].
A WOMAN'S VOICE. The Domestic Minister has called.
BURGE-LUBIN [not quite catching the answer] Who does she say has called?
CONFUCIUS. The Domestic Minister.
BARNABAS. Oh, dash it! That awful woman!
BURGE-LUBIN. She certainly is a bit of a terror. I don't exactly know why; for she is not at all bad-looking.
BARNABAS [out of patience] For Heaven's sake, don't be frivolous.
THE ARCHBISHOP. He cannot help it, Mr Accountant General. Three of his sixteen great-great-great-grandfathers married Lubins.
BURGE-LUBIN. Tut tut! I am not frivolling. I did not ask the lady here. Which of you did?
CONFUCIUS. It is her official duty to report personally to the President once a quarter.
BURGE-LUBIN. Oh, that. Then I suppose it's my official duty to receive her. Theyd better send her in. You don't mind, do you? She will bring us back to real life. I don't know how you fellows feel; but I'm just going dotty.
CONFUCIUS [into the telephone] The President will receive the Domestic Minister at once.
They watch the door in silence for the entrance of the Domestic Minister.
BURGE-LUBIN [suddenly, to the Archbishop] I suppose you have been married over and over again.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Once. You do not make vows until death when death is three hundred years off.
They relapse into uneasy silence. The Domestic Minister enters. She is a handsome woman, apparently in the prime of life, with elegant, tense, well held-up figure, and the walk of a goddess. Her expression and deportment are grave, swift, decisive, awful, unanswerable. She wears a Dianesque tunic instead of a blouse, and a silver coronet instead of a gold fillet. Her dress otherwise is not markedly different from that of the men, who rise as she enters, and incline their heads with instinctive awe. She comes to the vacant chair between Barnabas and Confucius.
BURGE-LUBIN [resolutely genial and gallant] Delighted to see you, Mrs Lutestring.
CONFUCIUS. We are honored by your celestial presence.
BARNABAS.