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MRS LUTESTRING. What is your age, Mr Archbishop? BURGE-LUBIN. Two hundred and eighty-three, he says. That is his little joke. Do you know, Mrs Lutestring, he had almost talked us into believing him when you came in and cleared the air with your robust common sense. MRS LUTESTRING. Do you really feel that, Mr President? I hear the note of breezy assertion in your voice.
BURGE-LUBIN. As President, I must not listen to unpatriotic criticisms of our national character, Mr Archbishop. THE ARCHBISHOP. As Archbishop, Mr President, it is my official duty to criticize the national character unsparingly.
BARNABAS. Do you? Then let me tell you that, except officially, I will never speak to you again. Do you hear? You will. BARNABAS. And don't you ever dare speak to me again. BURGE-LUBIN. I will. I will. Goodbye, Barnabas. God bless you. I know Barnabas. You neednt worry. Consider. There are those films at the Record Office.
It was badly governed twenty years ago; but since we forbade any Chinaman to take part in our public services, and imported natives of Scotland for that purpose, we have done well. Your information here is always twenty years out of date. BURGE-LUBIN. People don't seem to be able to govern themselves. I cant understand it. Why should it be so? CONFUCIUS. Justice is impartiality.
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.
BURGE-LUBIN. But dash it all, man, he isn't dead. 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.
And now that my foot is at last on the threshold of the temple I find that it is also the threshold of my tomb. That man would have been the greatest painter of all time if he could have lived as long as I. I saw him die of old age whilst he was still, as he said himself, a gentleman amateur, like all modern painters. BURGE-LUBIN. But why had you to marry an elderly man?
The President rapidly puts the peg in the switchboard; works the dial; and presses the button. The screen becomes transparent; and the Negress, brilliantly dressed, appears on what looks like the bridge of a steam yacht in glorious sea weather. The installation with which she is communicating is beside the binnacle. Avaunt! BURGE-LUBIN. What part of the coast is that? THE NEGRESS. Fishguard Bay.
MRS LUTESTRING. I often opened a door for the person you have just reminded me of. But he has been dead many years. The rest, except the Archbishop, look at one another quickly. CONFUCIUS. May I ask how many years? A long time. BURGE-LUBIN. You mustnt rush to conclusions about the Archbishop, Mrs Lutestring. He is an older bird than you think. Older than you, at all events.
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. They watch the door in silence for the entrance of the Domestic Minister.
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