# The Thing Happens: A.D. 2170/Act I, § iii

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?
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?
MRS LUTESTRING [struck by his tone, looks at him for a moment with some displeasure; then replies] It does not matter. 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.
MRS LUTESTRING [with a melancholy smile] I think not, Mr President. But the subject is a delicate one. I had rather not pursue it.
CONFUCIUS. There is a question which has not been asked.
MRS LUTESTRING [very decisively] If it is a question about my age, Mr Chief Secretary, it had better not be asked. All that concerns you about my personal affairs can be found in the books of the Accountant General.
CONFUCIUS. The question I was thinking of will not be addressed to you. But let me say that your sensitiveness on the point is very strange, coming from a woman so superior to all common weaknesses as we know you to be.
MRS LUTESTRING. I may have reasons which have nothing to do with common weaknesses, Mr Chief Secretary. I hope you will respect them.
CONFUCIUS [after bowing to her in assent] I will now put my question. Have you, Mr Archbishop, any ground for assuming, as you seem to do, that what has happened to you has not happened to other people as well?
BURGE-LUBIN. Yes, by George! I never thought of that.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I have never met any case but my own.
CONFUCIUS. How do you know?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Well, no one has ever told me that they were in this extraordinary position.
CONFUCIUS. That proves nothing. Did you ever tell anybody that you were in it? You never told us. Why did you never tell us?
THE ARCHBISHOP. I am surprised at the question, coming from so astute a mind as yours, Mr Secretary. When you reach the age I reached before I discovered what was happening to me, I was old enough to know and fear the ferocious hatred with which human animals, like all other animals, turn upon any unhappy individual who has the misfortune to be unlike themselves in every respect: to be unnatural, as they call it. You will still find, among the tales of that twentieth-century classic, Wells, a story of a race of men who grew twice as big as their fellows, and another story of a man who fell into the hands of a race of blind men. The big people had to fight the little people for their lives; and the man with eyes would have had his eyes put out by the blind had he not fled to the desert, where he perished miserably. Wells's teaching, on that and other matters, was not lost on me. By the way, he lent me five pounds once which I never repaid; and it still troubles my conscience.
CONFUCIUS. And were you the only reader of Wells? If there were others like you, had they not the same reason for keeping the secret?
THE ARCHBISHOP. That is true. But I should know. You short-lived people are so childish. If I met a man of my own age I should recognize him at once. I have never done so.
MRS LUTESTRING. Would you recognize a woman of your age, do you think?
THE ARCHBISHOP. I—[He stops and turns upon her with a searching look, startled by the suggestion and the suspicion it rouses].
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. I miss the note of conviction.
BURGE-LUBIN [jumping up] Look here. Let us stop talking damned nonsense. I don't wish to be disagreeable; but it's getting on my nerves. The best joke won't bear being pushed beyond a certain point. That point has been reached. I—I'm rather busy this morning. We all have our hands pretty full. Confucius here will tell you that I have a heavy day before me.
BARNABAS. Have you anything more important than this thing, if it's true?
BURGE-LUBIN. Oh, if if, if it's true! But it isn't true.
BARNABAS. Have you anything at all to do?
BURGE-LUBIN. Anything to do! Have you forgotten, Barnabas, that I happen to be President, and that the weight of the entire public business of this country is on my shoulders?
BARNABAS. Has he anything to do, Confucius?
CONFUCIUS. He has to be President.
BARNABAS. That means that he has nothing to do.
BURGE-LUBIN [sulkily] Very well, Barnabas. Go on making a fool of yourself. [He sits down]. Go on.
BARNABAS. I am not going to leave this room until we get to the bottom of this swindle.
MRS LUTESTRING [turning with deadly gravity on the Accountant General] This what, did you say?
CONFUCIUS. These expressions cannot be sustained. You obscure the discussion in using them.
BARNABAS [glad to escape from her gaze by addressing Confucius] Well, this unnatural horror. Will that satisfy you?
CONFUCIUS. That is in order. But we do not commit ourselves to the implications of the word horror.
THE ARCHBISHOP. By the word horror the Accountant General means only something unusual.
CONFUCIUS. I notice that the honorable Domestic Minister, on learning the advanced age of the venerable prelate, shews no sign of surprise or incredulity.
BURGE-LUBIN. She doesn't take it seriously. Who would? Eh, Mrs Lutestring?
MRS LUTESTRING. I take it very seriously indeed, Mr President. I see now that I was not mistaken at first. I have met the Archbishop before.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I felt sure of it. This vision of a door opening to me, and a woman's face welcoming me, must be a reminiscence of something that really happened; though I see it now as an angel opening the gate of heaven.
MRS LUTESTRING. Or a parlor maid opening the door of the house of the young woman you were in love with?
THE ARCHBISHOP [making a wry face] Is that the reality? How these things grow in our imagination! But may I say, Mrs Lutestring, that the transfiguration of a parlor maid to an angel is not more amazing than her transfiguration to the very dignified and able Domestic Minister I am addressing. I recognize the angel in you. Frankly, I do not recognize the parlor maid.
BURGE-LUBIN. Whats a parlor maid?
MRS LUTESTRING. An extinct species. A woman in a black dress and white apron, who opened the house door when people knocked or rang, and was either your tyrant or your slave. I was a parlor maid in the house of one of the Accountant General's remote ancestors. [To Confucius] You asked me my age, Mr Chief Secretary, I am two hundred and seventy-four.
BURGE-LUBIN [gallantly] You don't look it. You really don't look it.
MRS LUTESTRING [turning her face gravely towards him] Look again, Mr President.
BURGE-LUBIN [looking at her bravely until the smile fades from his face, and he suddenly covers his eyes with his hands] Yes: you do look it. I am convinced. It's true. Now call up the Lunatic Asylum, Confucius; and tell them to send an ambulance for me.
MRS LUTESTRING [to the Archbishop] Why have you given away your secret? our secret?
THE ARCHBISHOP. They found it out. The cinema records betrayed me. But I never dreamt that there were others. Did you?
MRS LUTESTRING. I knew one other. She was a cook. She grew tired, and killed herself.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Dear me! However, her death simplifies the situation, as I have been able to convince these gentlemen that the matter had better go no further.
MRS LUTESTRING. What! When the President knows! It will be all over the place before the end of the week.
BURGE-LUBIN [injured] Really, Mrs Lutestring! You speak as if I were a notoriously indiscreet person. Barnabas: have I such a reputation?
BARNABAS [resignedly] It cant be helped. It's constitutional.
CONFUCIUS. It is utterly unconstitutional. But, as you say, it cannot be helped.
BURGE-LUBIN [solemnly] I deny that a secret of State has ever passed my lips—except perhaps to the Minister of Health, who is discretion personified. People think, because she is a negress—
MRS LUTESTRING. It does not matter much now. Once, it would have mattered a great deal. But my children are all dead.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes: the children must have been a terrible difficulty. Fortunately for me, I had none.
MRS LUTESTRING. There was one daughter who was the child of my very heart. Some years after my first drowning I learnt that she had lost her sight. I went to her. She was an old woman of ninety-six, blind. She asked me to sit and talk with her because my voice was like the voice of her dead mother.
BURGE-LUBIN. The complications must be frightful. Really I hardly know whether I do want to live much longer than other people.
MRS LUTESTRING. You can always kill yourself, as cook did; but that was influenza. Long life is complicated, and even terrible; but it is glorious all the same. I would no more change places with an ordinary woman than with a mayfly that lives only an hour.
THE ARCHBISHOP. What set you thinking of it first?
MRS LUTESTRING. Conrad Barnabas's book. Your wife told me it was more wonderful than Napoleon's Book of Fate and Old Moore's Almanac, which cook and I used to read. I was very ignorant: it did not seem so impossible to me as to an educated woman. Yet I forgot all about it, and married and drudged as a poor man's wife, and brought up children, and looked twenty years older than I really was, until one day, long after my husband died and my children were out in the world working for themselves, I noticed that I looked twenty years younger than I really was. The truth came to me in a flash.
BURGE-LUBIN. An amazing moment. Your feelings must have been beyond description. What was your first thought?
MRS LUTESTRING. Pure terror. I saw that the little money I had laid up would not last, and that I must go out and: work again. They had things called Old Age Pensions then: miserable pittances for worn-out old laborers to die on. I thought I should be found out if I went on drawing it too long. The horror of facing another lifetime of drudgery, of missing my hard-earned rest and losing my poor little savings, drove everything else out of my mind. You people nowadays can have no conception of the dread of poverty that hung over us then, or of the utter tiredness of forty years' unending overwork and striving to make a shilling do the work of a pound.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I wonder you did not kill yourself. I often wonder why the poor in those evil old times did not kill themselves. They did not even kill other people.
MRS LUTESTRING. You never kill yourself, because you always may as well wait until tomorrow. And you have not energy or conviction enough to kill the others. Besides, how can you blame them when you would do as they do if you were in their place?
BURGE-LUBIN. Devilish poor consolation, that.
MRS LUTESTRING. There were other consolations in those days for people like me. We drank preparations of alcohol to relieve the strain of living and give us an artificial happiness. [All together, making wry faces:]
       BURGE-LUBIN. Alcohol!
       CONFUCIUS. Pfff!
       BARNABAS. Disgusting.
MRS LUTESTRING. A little alcohol would improve your temper and manners, and make you much easier to live with, Mr Accountant General.
BURGE-LUBIN [laughing] By George, I believe you! Try it, Barnabas.
CONFUCIUS. No. Try tea. It is the more civilized poison of the two.
MRS LUTESTRING. You, Mr President, were born intoxicated with your own well-fed natural exuberance. You cannot imagine what alcohol was to an underfed poor woman. I had carefully arranged my little savings so that I could get drunk, as we called it, once a week; and my only pleasure was looking forward to that poor little debauch. That is what saved me from suicide. I could not bear to miss my next carouse. But when I stopped working, and lived on my pension, the fatigue of my life's drudgery began to wear off, because, you see, I was not really old. I recuperated. I looked younger and younger. And at last I was rested enough to have courage and strength to begin life again. Besides, political changes were making it easier: life was a little better worth living for the nine-tenths of the people who used to be mere drudges. After that, I never turned back or faltered. My only regret now is that I shall die when I am three hundred or thereabouts. There was only one thing that made life hard; and that is gone now.
CONFUCIUS. May we ask what that was?
MRS LUTESTRING. Perhaps you will be offended if I tell you.
BURGE-LUBIN. Offended! My dear lady, do you suppose, after such a stupendous revelation, that anything short of a blow from a sledge-hammer could produce the smallest impression on any of us?
MRS LUTESTRING. Well, you see, it has been so hard on me never to meet a grown-up person. You are all such children. And I never was very fond of children, except that one girl who woke up the mother passion in me. I have been very lonely sometimes.
BURGE-LUBIN [again gallant] But surely, Mrs Lutestring, that has been your own fault. If I may say so, a lady of your attractions need never have been lonely.
MRS LUTESTRING. Why?
BURGE-LUBIN. Why! Well—. Well, er—. Well, er er—. Well! [he gives it qup].
THE ARCHBISHOP. He means that you might have married. Curious, how little they understand our position.
MRS LUTESTRING. I did marry. I married again on my hundred and first birthday. But of course I had to marry an elderly man: a man over sixty. He was a great painter. On his deathbed he said to me 'It has taken me fifty years to learn my trade, and to paint all the foolish pictures a man must paint and get rid of before he comes through them to the great things he ought to paint. 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? Why not marry a young one? or shall I say a middle-aged one? If my own affections were not already engaged; and if, to tell the truth, I were not a little afraid of you—for you are a very superior woman, as we all acknowledge—I should esteem myself happy in—er—er—
MRS LUTESTRING. Mr President: have you ever tried to take advantage of the innocence of a little child for the gratification of your senses?
BURGE-LUBIN. Good Heavens, madam, what do you take me for? What right have you to ask me such a question?
MRS LUTESTRING. I am at present in my two hundred and seventy-fifth year. You suggest that I should take advantage of the innocence of a child of thirty, and marry it.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Can you shortlived people not understand that as the confusion and immaturity and primitive animalism in which we live for the first hundred years of our life is worse in this matter of sex than in any other, you are intolerable to us in that relation?
BURGE-LUBIN. Do you mean to say, Mrs Lutestring, that you regard me as a child?
MRS LUTESTRING. Do you expect me to regard you as a completed soul? Oh, you may well be afraid of me. There are moments when your levity, your ingratitude, your shallow jollity, make my gorge rise so against you that if I could not remind myself that you are a child I should be tempted to doubt your right to live at all.
CONFUCIUS. Do you grudge us the few years we have? you who have three hundred!
BURGE-LUBIN. You accuse me of levity! Must I remind you, madam, that I am the President, and that you are only the head of a department?
BARNABAS. Ingratitude too! You draw a pension for three hundred years when we owe you only seventy-eight; and you call us ungrateful!
MRS LUTESTRING. I do. When I think of the blessings that have been showered on you, and contrast them with the poverty! the humiliations! the anxieties! the heartbreak! the insolence and tyranny that were the daily lot of mankind when I was learning to suffer instead of learning to live! when I see how lightly you take it all! how you quarrel over the crumpled leaves in your beds of roses! how you are so dainty about your work that unless it is made either interesting or delightful to you you leave it to negresses and Chinamen, I ask myself whether even three hundred years of thought and experience can save you from being superseded by the Power that created you and put you on your trial.
BURGE-LUBIN. My dear lady: our Chinese and colored friends are perfectly happy. They are twenty times better off here than they would be in China or Liberia. They do their work admirably; and in doing it they set us free for higher employments.
THE ARCHBISHOP [who has caught the infection of her indignation] What higher employments are you capable of? you that are superannuated at seventy and dead at eighty!
MRS LUTESTRING. You are not really doing higher work. You are supposed to make the decisions and give the orders; but the negresses and the Chinese make up your minds for you and tell you what orders to give, just as my brother, who was a sergeant in the Guards, used to prompt his officers in the old days. When I want to get anything done at the Health Ministry I do not come to you: I go to the black lady who has been the real president during your present term of office, or to Confucius, who goes on for ever while presidents come and presidents go.
BURGE-LUBIN. This is outrageous. This is treason to the white race. And let me tell you, madam, that I have never in my life met the Minister of Health, and that I protest against the vulgar color prejudice which disparages her great ability and her eminent services to the State. My relations with her are purely telephonic, gramophonic, photophonic, and, may I add, platonic.