Читать книгу Collected Works - George Bernard Shaw, Bernard Shaw - Страница 106
ОглавлениеBURGE-LUBIN. Who is denying it?
BARNABAS. Well, wave had moving pictures of all four put on the screen today for this American; and they and the Archbishop are the same man. Now tell me I am mad.
BURGE-LUBIN. I do tell you you are mad. Stark raving mad.
BARNABAS. Am I to believe my own eyes or am I not?
BURGE-LUBIN. You can do as you please. All I can tell you is that I don't believe your eyes if they cant see any difference between a live archbishop and two dead ones. [The apparatus rings, he holds the button down]. Yes?
THE WOMAN'S VOICE. The Archbishop of York, to see the President.
BARNABAS [hoarse with rage] Have him in. I'll talk to the scoundrel.
BURGE-LUBIN [releasing the button] Not while you are in this state.
BARNABAS [reaching furiously for his button and holding it down] Send the Archbishop in at once.
BURGE-LUBIN. If you lose your temper, Barnabas, remember that we shall be two to one.
The Archbishop enters. He has a white band round his throat, set in a black stock. He wears a sort of kilt of black ribbons, and soft black boots that button high up on his calves. His costume does not differ otherwise from that of the President and the Accountant General; but its color scheme is black and white. He is older than the Reverend Bill Haslam was when he wooed Miss Savvy Barnabas; but he is recognizably the same man. He does not look a day over fifty, and is very well preserved even at that; but his boyishness of manner is quite gone: he now has complete authority and self-possession: in fact the President is a little afraid of him; and it seems quite natural and inevitable that he should speak fast.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Good day, Mr President.
BURGE-LUBIN. Good day, Mr Archbishop. Be seated.
THE ARCHBISHOP [sitting down between them] Good day, Mr Accountant General.
BARNABAS [malevolently] Good day to you. I have a question to put to you, if you don't mind.
THE ARCHBISHOP [looking curiously at him, jarred by his uncivil tone] Certainly. What is it?
BARNABAS. What is your definition of a thief?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Rather an old-fashioned word, is it not?
BARNABAS. It survives officially in my department.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Our departments are full of survivals. Look at my tie! my apron! my boots! They are all mere survivals; yet it seems that without them I cannot be a proper Archbishop.
BARNABAS. Indeed! Well, in my department the word thief survives, because in the community the thing thief survives. And a very despicable and dishonorable thing he is, too.
THE ARCHBISHOP [coolly] I daresay.
BARNABAS. In my department, sir, a thief is a person who lives longer than the statutory expectation of life entitles him to, and goes on drawing public money when, if he were an honest man, he would be dead.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Then let me say, sir, that your department does not understand its own business. If you have miscalculated the duration of human life, that is not the fault of the persons whose longevity you have miscalculated. And if they continue to work and produce, they pay their way, even if they live two or three centuries.
BARNABAS. I know nothing about their working and producing. That is not the business of my department. I am concerned with their expectation of life; and I say that no man has any right to go on living and drawing money when he ought to be dead.
THE ARCHBISHOP. You do not comprehend the relation between income and production.
BARNABAS. I understand my own department.
THE ARCHBISHOP. That is not enough. Your department is part of a synthesis which embraces all the departments.
BURGE-LUBIN. Synthesis! This is an intellectual difficulty. This is a job for Confucius. I heard him use that very word the other day; and I wondered what the devil he meant. [Switching on] Hallo! Put me through to the Chief Secretary.
CONFUCIUS'S VOICE. You are speaking to him.
BURGE-LUBIN. An intellectual difficulty, old man. Something we don't understand. Come and help us out.
THE ARCHBISHOP. May I ask how the question has arisen?
BARNABAS. Ah! You begin to smell a rat, do you? You thought yourself pretty safe. You—
BURGE-LUBIN. Steady, Barnabas. Dont be in a hurry.
Confucius enters.
THE ARCHBISHOP [rising] Good morning, Mr Chief Secretary.
BURGE-LUBIN [rising in instinctive imitation of the Archbishop] Honor us by taking a seat, O sage.
CONFUCIUS. Ceremony is needless. [He bows to the company, and takes the chair at the foot of the table].
The President and the Archbishop resume their seats.
BURGE-LUBIN. We wish to put a case to you, Confucius. Suppose a man, instead of conforming to the official estimate of his expectation of life, were to live for more than two centuries and a half, would the Accountant General be justified in calling him a thief?
CONFUCIUS. No. He would be justified in calling him a liar.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I think not, Mr Chief Secretary. What do you suppose my age is?
CONFUCIUS. Fifty.
BURGE-LUBIN. You don't look it. Forty-five; and young for your age.
THE ARCHBISHOP. My age is two hundred and eighty-three.
BARNABAS [morosely triumphant] Hmp! Mad, am I?
BURGE-LUBIN. Youre both mad. Excuse me, Archbishop; but this is getting a bit—well—
THE ARCHBISHOP [to Confucius] Mr Chief Secretary: will you, to oblige me, assume that I have lived nearly three centuries? As a hypothesis?
BURGE-LUBIN. What is a hypothesis?
CONFUCIUS. It does not matter. I understand. [To the Archbishop] Am I to assume that you have lived in your ancestors, or by metempsychosis—
BURGE-LUBIN. Met—Emp—Sy—Good Lord! What a brain, Confucius! What a brain!
THE ARCHBISHOP. Nothing of that kind. Assume in the ordinary sense that I was born in the year 1887, and that I have worked continuously in one profession or another since the year 1910. Am I a thief?
CONFUCIUS. I do not know. Was that one of your professions?
THE ARCHBISHOP. No. I have been nothing worse than an Archbishop, a President, and a General.
BARNABAS. Has he or has he not robbed the Exchequer by drawing five or six incomes when he was only entitled to one? Answer me that.
CONFUCIUS. Certainly not. The hypothesis is that he has worked continuously since 1910. We are now in the year 2170. What is the official lifetime?
BARNABAS. Seventy-eight. Of course it's an average; and we don't mind a man here and there going on to ninety, or even, as a curiosity, becoming a centenarian. But I say that a man who goes beyond that is a swindler.
CONFUCIUS. Seventy-eight into two hundred and eighty-three goes more than three and a half times. Your department owes the Archbishop two and a half educations and three and a half retiring pensions.
BARNABAS. Stuff! How can that be?
CONFUCIUS. At what age do your people begin to work for the community?
BURGE-LUBIN. Three. They do certain things every day when they are three. Just to break them in, you know. But they become self-supporting, or nearly so, at thirteen.
CONFUCIUS. And at what age do they retire?
BARNABAS. Forty-three.
CONFUCIUS. That is, they do thirty years' work; and they receive maintenance and education, without working, for thirteen years of childhood and thirty-five years of superannuation, forty-eight years in all, for each thirty years' work. The Archbishop has given you 260 years' work, and has received only one education and no superannuation. You therefore owe him over 300 years of leisure and nearly eight educations. You are thus heavily in his debt. In other words, he has effected an enormous national economy by living so long; and you, by living only seventy-eight years, are profiting at his expense. He is the benefactor: you are the thief. [Half rising] May I now withdraw and return to my serious business, as my own span is comparatively short?
BURGE-LUBIN. Dont be in a hurry, old chap. [Confucius sits down again]. This hypothecary, or whatever you call it, is put up seriously. I don't believe it; but if the Archbishop and the Accountant General are going to insist that it's true, we shall have either to lock them up or to see the thing through.
BARNABAS. It's no use trying these Chinese subtleties on me. I'm a plain man; and though I don't understand metaphysics, and don't believe in them, I understand figures; and if the Archbishop is only entitled to seventy-eight years, and he takes 283, I say he takes more than he is entitled to. Get over that if you can.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I have not taken 283 years: I have taken 23 and given 260.
CONFUCIUS. Do your accounts shew a deficiency or a surplus?
BARNABAS. A surplus. Thats what I cant make out. Thats the artfulness of these people.
BURGE-LUBIN. That settles it. Whats the use of arguing? The Chink says you are wrong; and theres an end of it.
BARNABAS. I say nothing against the Chink's arguments. But what about my facts?
CONFUCIUS. If your facts include a case of a man living 283 years, I advise you to take a few weeks at the seaside.
BARNABAS. Let there be an end of this hinting that I am out of my mind. Come and look at the cinema record. I tell you this man is Archbishop Haslam, Archbishop Stickit, President Dickenson, General Bullyboy and himself into the bargain; all five of them.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I do not deny it. I never have denied it. Nobody has ever asked me.
BURGE-LUBIN. But damn it, man—I beg your pardon, Archbishop; but really, really—
THE ARCHBISHOP. Dont mention it. What were you going to say?
BURGE-LUBIN. Well, you were drowned four times over. You are not a cat, you know.
THE ARCHBISHOP. That is very easy to understand. Consider my situation when I first made the amazing discovery that I was destined to live three hundred years! I—
CONFUCIUS [interrupting him] Pardon me. Such a discovery was impossible. You have not made it yet. You may live a million years if you have already lived two hundred. There is no question of three hundred years. You have made a slip at the very beginning of your fairy tale, Mr Archbishop.
BURGE-LUBIN. Good, Confucius! [To the Archbishop] He has you there. I don't see how you can get over that.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes: it is quite a good point. But if the Accountant General will go to the British Museum library, and search the catalogue, he will find under his own name a curious and now forgotten book, dated 1924, entitled The Gospel of the Brothers Barnabas. That gospel was that men must live three hundred years if civilization is to be saved. It shewed that this extension of individual human life was possible, and how it was likely to come about. I married the daughter of one of the brothers.
BARNABAS. Do you mean to say you claim to be a connection of mine?
THE ARCHBISHOP. I claim nothing. As I have by this time perhaps three or four million cousins of one degree or another, I have ceased to call on the family.
BURGE-LUBIN. Gracious heavens! Four million relatives! Is that calculation correct, Confucius?
CONFUCIUS. In China it might be forty millions if there were no checks on population.
BURGE-LUBIN. This is a staggerer. It brings home to one—but [recovering] it isnt true, you know. Let us keep sane.
CONFUCIUS [to the Archbishop] You wish us to understand that the illustrious ancestors of the Accountant General communicated to you a secret by which you could attain the age of three hundred years.
THE ARCHBISHOP. No. Nothing of the kind. They simply believed that mankind could live any length of time it knew to be absolutely necessary to save civilization from extinction. I did not share their belief: at least I was not conscious of sharing it: I thought I was only amused by it. To me my father-in-law and his brother were a pair of clever cranks who had talked one another into a fixed idea which had become a monomania with them. It was not until I got into serious difficulties with the pension authorities after turning seventy that I began to suspect the truth.
CONFUCIUS. The truth?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes, Mr Chief Secretary: the truth. Like all revolutionary truths, it began as a joke. As I shewed no signs of ageing after forty-five, my wife used to make fun of me by saying that I was certainly going to live three hundred years. She was sixty-eight when she died; and the last thing she said to me, as I sat by her bedside holding her hand, was 'Bill: you really don't look fifty. I wonder—' She broke off, and fell asleep wondering, and never awoke. Then I began to wonder too. That is the explanation of the three hundred years, Mr Secretary.
CONFUCIUS. It is very ingenious, Mr Archbishop. And very well told.
BURGE-LUBIN. Of course you understand that I don't for a moment suggest the very faintest doubt of your absolute veracity, Archbishop. You know that, don't you?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Quite, Mr President. Only you don't believe me: that is all. I do not expect you to. In your place I should not believe. You had better have a look at the films. [Pointing to the Accountant General] He believes.
BURGE-LUBIN. But the drowning? What about the drowning? A man might get drowned once, or even twice if he was exceptionally careless. But he couldn't be drowned four times. He would run away from water like a mad dog.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Perhaps Mr Chief Secretary can guess the explanation of that.
CONFUCIUS. To keep your secret, you had to die.
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. 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. Good day, madam.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. I am the Archbishop of York.
MRS LUTESTRING. Surely we have met, Mr Archbishop. I remember your face. We—[she checks herself suddenly] Ah, no: I remember now: it was someone else. [She sits down]. They all sit down.
THE ARCHBISHOP [also puzzled] Are you sure you are mistaken? I also have some association with your face, Mrs Lutestring. Something like a door opening continually and revealing you. And a smile of welcome when you recognized me. Did you ever open a door for me, I wonder?
