Heartbreak House

George Bernard Shaw

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Contents

HEARTBREAK HOUSE ANDHORSEBACK HALL 1Where Heartbreak House Stands . . . . . 1The Inhabitants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2Horseback Hall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4Revolution on the Shelf . . . . . . . . . . . 5The Cherry Orchard . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7Natures Long Credits . . . . . . . . . . . . 8The Wicked Half Century . . . . . . . . . 10Hypochondria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Those who do not know how to live

must make a Merit of Dying . . . . . 14War Delirium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Madness in Court . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17The Long Arm of War . . . . . . . . . . . . 19The Rabid Watchdogs of Liberty . . . . . . 22The Sufferings of the Sane . . . . . . . . . 25Evil in the Throne of Good . . . . . . . . . 28Straining at the Gnat and swallowing

the Camel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Little Minds and Big Battles . . . . . . . . 32

i

ii

The Dumb Capables and the NoisyIncapables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

The Practical Business Men . . . . . . . . 37How the Fools shouted the Wise Men down 38The Mad Election . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39The Yahoo and the Angry Ape . . . . . . . 41Plague on Both your Houses! . . . . . . . 44How the Theatre fared . . . . . . . . . . . 46The Soldier at the Theatre Front . . . . . 47Heartbreak House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50Commerce in the Theatre . . . . . . . . . 51Unser Shakespeare . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51The Higher Drama put out of Action . . . 52Church and Theatre . . . . . . . . . . . . 55The Next Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59The Ephemeral Thrones and the

Eternal Theatre . . . . . . . . . . . . 62How War muzzles the Dramatic Poet . . . 63

ACT I 67

ACT II 133

ACT III 205

HEARTBREAKHOUSE ANDHORSEBACKHALL

Where Heartbreak HouseStandsHeartbreak House is not merely the nameof the play which follows this preface. Itis cultured, leisured Europe before the war.When the play was begun not a shot hadbeen fired; and only the professional diploma-tists and the very few amateurs whose hobbyis foreign policy even knew that the gunswere loaded. A Russian playwright, Tchekov,had produced four fascinating dramatic stud-ies of Heartbreak House, of which three, TheCherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, and The Seag-

1

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ull, had been performed in England. Tolstoy,in his Fruits of Enlightenment, had shown usthrough it in his most ferociously contemptu-ous manner. Tolstoy did not waste any sym-pathy on it: it was to him the house in whichEurope was stifling its soul; and he knew thatour utter enervation and futilization in thatoverheated drawingroom atmosphere was de-livering the world over to the control of igno-rant and soulless cunning and energy, withthe frightful consequences which have nowovertaken it. Tolstoy was no pessimist: hewas not disposed to leave the house stand-ing if he could bring it down about the earsof its pretty and amiable voluptuaries; and hewielded the pickaxe with a will. He treatedthe case of the inmates as one of opium poi-soning, to be dealt with by seizing the pa-tients roughly and exercising them violentlyuntil they were broad awake. Tchekov, moreof a fatalist, had no faith in these charmingpeople extricating themselves. They would,he thought, be sold up and sent adrift by thebailiffs; and he therefore had no scruple in ex-ploiting and even flattering their charm.

The InhabitantsTchekov’s plays, being less lucrative thanswings and roundabouts, got no further in

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England, where theatres are only ordinarycommercial affairs, than a couple of perfor-mances by the Stage Society. We stared andsaid, “How Russian!” They did not strike mein that way. Just as Ibsen’s intensely Nor-wegian plays exactly fitted every middle andprofessional class suburb in Europe, these in-tensely Russian plays fitted all the countryhouses in Europe in which the pleasures ofmusic, art, literature, and the theatre hadsupplanted hunting, shooting, fishing, flirting,eating, and drinking. The same nice people,the same utter futility. The nice people couldread; some of them could write; and they werethe sole repositories of culture who had so-cial opportunities of contact with our politi-cians, administrators, and newspaper propri-etors, or any chance of sharing or influencingtheir activities. But they shrank from thatcontact. They hated politics. They did notwish to realize Utopia for the common people:they wished to realize their favorite fictionsand poems in their own lives; and, when theycould, they lived without scruple on incomeswhich they did nothing to earn. The womenin their girlhood made themselves look likevariety theatre stars, and settled down laterinto the types of beauty imagined by the pre-vious generation of painters. They took theonly part of our society in which there was

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leisure for high culture, and made it an eco-nomic, political and; as far as practicable, amoral vacuum; and as Nature, abhorring thevacuum, immediately filled it up with sex andwith all sorts of refined pleasures, it was avery delightful place at its best for momentsof relaxation. In other moments it was disas-trous. For prime ministers and their like, itwas a veritable Capua.

Horseback HallBut where were our front benchers to nestif not here? The alternative to HeartbreakHouse was Horseback Hall, consisting of aprison for horses with an annex for the ladiesand gentlemen who rode them, hunted them,talked about them, bought them and soldthem, and gave nine-tenths of their lives tothem, dividing the other tenth between char-ity, churchgoing (as a substitute for religion),and conservative electioneering (as a substi-tute for politics). It is true that the two es-tablishments got mixed at the edges. Ex-iles from the library, the music room, andthe picture gallery would be found languish-ing among the stables, miserably discon-tented; and hardy horsewomen who slept atthe first chord of Schumann were born, hor-ribly misplaced, into the garden of Klingsor;

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but sometimes one came upon horsebreakersand heartbreakers who could make the bestof both worlds. As a rule, however, the twowere apart and knew little of one another; sothe prime minister folk had to choose betweenbarbarism and Capua. And of the two atmo-spheres it is hard to say which was the morefatal to statesmanship.

Revolution on the ShelfHeartbreak House was quite familiar withrevolutionary ideas on paper. It aimed at be-ing advanced and freethinking, and hardlyever went to church or kept the Sabbath ex-cept by a little extra fun at weekends. Whenyou spent a Friday to Tuesday in it you foundon the shelf in your bedroom not only thebooks of poets and novelists, but of revolu-tionary biologists and even economists. With-out at least a few plays by myself and MrGranville Barker, and a few stories by Mr H.G. Wells, Mr Arnold Bennett, and Mr JohnGalsworthy, the house would have been out ofthe movement. You would find Blake amongthe poets, and beside him Bergson, Butler,Scott Haldane, the poems of Meredith andThomas Hardy, and, generally speaking, allthe literary implements for forming the mindof the perfect modern Socialist and Creative

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Evolutionist. It was a curious experience tospend Sunday in dipping into these books, andthe Monday morning to read in the daily pa-per that the country had just been brought tothe verge of anarchy because a new Home Sec-retary or chief of police without an idea in hishead that his great-grandmother might nothave had to apologize for, had refused to “rec-ognize” some powerful Trade Union, just asa gondola might refuse to recognize a 20,000-ton liner.

In short, power and culture were in sepa-rate compartments. The barbarians were notonly literally in the saddle, but on the frontbench in the House of commons, with nobodyto correct their incredible ignorance of mod-ern thought and political science but upstartsfrom the counting-house, who had spent theirlives furnishing their pockets instead of theirminds. Both, however, were practised in deal-ing with money and with men, as far as ac-quiring the one and exploiting the other went;and although this is as undesirable an expert-ness as that of the medieval robber baron, itqualifies men to keep an estate or a businessgoing in its old routine without necessarilyunderstanding it, just as Bond Street trades-men and domestic servants keep fashionablesociety going without any instruction in soci-ology.

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The Cherry OrchardThe Heartbreak people neither could norwould do anything of the sort. With theirheads as full of the Anticipations of Mr H. G.Wells as the heads of our actual rulers wereempty even of the anticipations of Erasmus orSir Thomas More, they refused the drudgeryof politics, and would have made a very poorjob of it if they had changed their minds. Notthat they would have been allowed to med-dle anyhow, as only through the accident ofbeing a hereditary peer can anyone in thesedays of Votes for Everybody get into parlia-ment if handicapped by a serious modern cul-tural equipment; but if they had, their habit ofliving in a vacuum would have left them help-less and ineffective in public affairs. Even inprivate life they were often helpless wasters oftheir inheritance, like the people in Tchekov’sCherry Orchard. Even those who lived withintheir incomes were really kept going by theirsolicitors and agents, being unable to managean estate or run a business without continualprompting from those who have to learn howto do such things or starve.

From what is called Democracy no correc-tive to this state of things could be hoped. Itis said that every people has the Governmentit deserves. It is more to the point that every

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Government has the electorate it deserves; forthe orators of the front bench can edify or de-bauch an ignorant electorate at will. Thus ourdemocracy moves in a vicious circle of recipro-cal worthiness and unworthiness.

Nature’s Long CreditsNature’s way of dealing with unhealthy condi-tions is unfortunately not one that compels usto conduct a solvent hygiene on a cash basis.She demoralizes us with long credits and reck-less overdrafts, and then pulls us up cruellywith catastrophic bankruptcies. Take, for ex-ample, common domestic sanitation. A wholecity generation may neglect it utterly andscandalously, if not with absolute impunity,yet without any evil consequences that any-one thinks of tracing to it. In a hospital twogenerations of medical students may toleratedirt and carelessness, and then go out intogeneral practice to spread the doctrine thatfresh air is a fad, and sanitation an impostureset up to make profits for plumbers. Then sud-denly Nature takes her revenge. She strikesat the city with a pestilence and at the hos-pital with an epidemic of hospital gangrene,slaughtering right and left until the innocentyoung have paid for the guilty old, and the ac-count is balanced. And then she goes to sleep

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again and gives another period of credit, withthe same result.

This is what has just happened in ourpolitical hygiene. Political science has beenas recklessly neglected by Governments andelectorates during my lifetime as sanitary sci-ence was in the days of Charles the Second.In international relations diplomacy has beena boyishly lawless affair of family intrigues,commercial and territorial brigandage, tor-pors of pseudo-goodnature produced by lazi-ness and spasms of ferocious activity pro-duced by terror. But in these islands wemuddled through. Nature gave us a longercredit than she gave to France or Germanyor Russia. To British centenarians who diedin their beds in 1914, any dread of having tohide underground in London from the shellsof an enemy seemed more remote and fantas-tic than a dread of the appearance of a colonyof cobras and rattlesnakes in Kensington Gar-dens. In the prophetic works of Charles Dick-ens we were warned against many evils whichhave since come to pass; but of the evil of be-ing slaughtered by a foreign foe on our owndoorsteps there was no shadow. Nature gaveus a very long credit; and we abused it tothe utmost. But when she struck at last shestruck with a vengeance. For four years shesmote our firstborn and heaped on us plagues

10 Heartbreak House

of which Egypt never dreamed. They were allas preventable as the great Plague of London,and came solely because they had not beenprevented. They were not undone by winningthe war. The earth is still bursting with thedead bodies of the victors.

The Wicked Half CenturyIt is difficult to say whether indifference andneglect are worse than false doctrine; butHeartbreak House and Horseback Hall unfor-tunately suffered from both. For half a cen-tury before the war civilization had been goingto the devil very precipitately under the influ-ence of a pseudo-science as disastrous as theblackest Calvinism. Calvinism taught that aswe are predestinately saved or damned, noth-ing that we can do can alter our destiny. Still,as Calvinism gave the individual no clue as towhether he had drawn a lucky number or anunlucky one, it left him a fairly strong inter-est in encouraging his hopes of salvation andallaying his fear of damnation by behaving asone of the elect might be expected to behaverather than as one of the reprobate. But in themiddle of the nineteenth century naturalistsand physicists assured the world, in the nameof Science, that salvation and damnation areall nonsense, and that predestination is the

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central truth of religion, inasmuch as humanbeings are produced by their environment,their sins and good deeds being only a series ofchemical and mechanical reactions over whichthey have no control. Such figments as mind,choice, purpose, conscience, will, and so forth,are, they taught, mere illusions, produced be-cause they are useful in the continual struggleof the human machine to maintain its envi-ronment in a favorable condition, a process in-cidentally involving the ruthless destructionor subjection of its competitors for the supply(assumed to be limited) of subsistence avail-able. We taught Prussia this religion; andPrussia bettered our instruction so effectivelythat we presently found ourselves confrontedwith the necessity of destroying Prussia toprevent Prussia destroying us. And that hasjust ended in each destroying the other to anextent doubtfully reparable in our time.

It may be asked how so imbecile and dan-gerous a creed ever came to be accepted byintelligent beings. I will answer that ques-tion more fully in my next volume of plays,which will be entirely devoted to the subject.For the present I will only say that there werebetter reasons than the obvious one that suchsham science as this opened a scientific careerto very stupid men, and all the other careersto shameless rascals, provided they were in-

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dustrious enough. It is true that this motiveoperated very powerfully; but when the newdeparture in scientific doctrine which is asso-ciated with the name of the great naturalistCharles Darwin began, it was not only a reac-tion against a barbarous pseudo-evangelicalteleology intolerably obstructive to all scien-tific progress, but was accompanied, as it hap-pened, by discoveries of extraordinary inter-est in physics, chemistry, and that lifelessmethod of evolution which its investigatorscalled Natural Selection. Howbeit, there wasonly one result possible in the ethical sphere,and that was the banishment of consciencefrom human affairs, or, as Samuel Butler ve-hemently put it, “of mind from the universe.”

HypochondriaNow Heartbreak House, with Butler andBergson and Scott Haldane alongside Blakeand the other major poets on its shelves (tosay nothing of Wagner and the tone poets),was not so completely blinded by the doltishmaterialism of the laboratories as the uncul-tured world outside. But being an idle house itwas a hypochondriacal house, always runningafter cures. It would stop eating meat, not onvalid Shelleyan grounds, but in order to getrid of a bogey called Uric Acid; and it would

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actually let you pull all its teeth out to exor-cise another demon named Pyorrhea. It wassuperstitious, and addicted to table-rapping,materialization séances, clairvoyance, palm-istry, crystal-gazing and the like to such anextent that it may be doubted whether everbefore in the history of the world did sooth-sayers, astrologers, and unregistered thera-peutic specialists of all sorts flourish as theydid during this half century of the drift to theabyss. The registered doctors and surgeonswere hard put to it to compete with the un-registered. They were not clever enough to ap-peal to the imagination and sociability of theHeartbreakers by the arts of the actor, the or-ator, the poet, the winning conversationalist.They had to fall back coarsely on the terrorof infection and death. They prescribed inoc-ulations and operations. Whatever part of ahuman being could be cut out without neces-sarily killing him they cut out; and he oftendied (unnecessarily of course) in consequence.From such trifles as uvulas and tonsils theywent on to ovaries and appendices until at lastno one’s inside was safe. They explained thatthe human intestine was too long, and thatnothing could make a child of Adam healthyexcept short circuiting the pylorus by cuttinga length out of the lower intestine and fasten-ing it directly to the stomach. As their mech-

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anist theory taught them that medicine wasthe business of the chemist’s laboratory, andsurgery of the carpenter’s shop, and also thatScience (by which they meant their practices)was so important that no consideration for theinterests of any individual creature, whetherfrog or philosopher, much less the vulgar com-monplaces of sentimental ethics, could weighfor a moment against the remotest off-chanceof an addition to the body of scientific knowl-edge, they operated and vivisected and inocu-lated and lied on a stupendous scale, clamor-ing for and actually acquiring such legal pow-ers over the bodies of their fellow-citizens asneither king, pope, nor parliament dare everhave claimed. The Inquisition itself was a Lib-eral institution compared to the General Med-ical Council.

Those who do not knowhow to live must make aMerit of DyingHeartbreak House was far too lazy and shal-low to extricate itself from this palace of evilenchantment. It rhapsodized about love; butit believed in cruelty. It was afraid of thecruel people; and it saw that cruelty wasat least effective. Cruelty did things that

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made money, whereas Love did nothing butprove the soundness of Larochefoucauld’s say-ing that very few people would fall in loveif they had never read about it. HeartbreakHouse, in short, did not know how to live, atwhich point all that was left to it was the boastthat at least it knew how to die: a melan-choly accomplishment which the outbreak ofwar presently gave it practically unlimited op-portunities of displaying. Thus were the first-born of Heartbreak House smitten; and theyoung, the innocent, the hopeful, expiated thefolly and worthlessness of their elders.

War DeliriumOnly those who have lived through a first-ratewar, not in the field, but at home, and kepttheir heads, can possibly understand the bit-terness of Shakespeare and Swift, who bothwent through this experience. The horrorof Peer Gynt in the madhouse, when the lu-natics, exalted by illusions of splendid tal-ent and visions of a dawning millennium,crowned him as their emperor, was tame incomparison. I do not know whether anyonereally kept his head completely except thosewho had to keep it because they had to con-duct the war at first hand. I should not havekept my own (as far as I did keep it) if I had

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not at once understood that as a scribe andspeaker I too was under the most serious pub-lic obligation to keep my grip on realities; butthis did not save me from a considerable de-gree of hyperæsthesia. There were of coursesome happy people to whom the war meantnothing: all political and general matters ly-ing outside their little circle of interest. Butthe ordinary war-conscious civilian went mad,the main symptom being a conviction that thewhole order of nature had been reversed. Allfoods, he felt, must now be adulterated. Allschools must be closed. No advertisementsmust be sent to the newspapers, of which neweditions must appear and be bought up everyten minutes. Travelling must be stopped, or,that being impossible, greatly hindered. Allpretences about fine art and culture and thelike must be flung off as an intolerable affec-tation; and the picture galleries and museumsand schools at once occupied by war workers.The British Museum itself was saved only bya hair’s breadth. The sincerity of all this, andof much more which would not be believedif I chronicled it, may be established by oneconclusive instance of the general craziness.Men were seized with the illusion that theycould win the war by giving away money. Andthey not only subscribed millions to Funds ofall sorts with no discoverable object, and to

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ridiculous voluntary organizations for doingwhat was plainly the business of the civil andmilitary authorities, but actually handed outmoney to any thief in the street who had thepresence of mind to pretend that he (or she)was “collecting” it for the annihilation of theenemy. Swindlers were emboldened to take of-fices; label themselves Anti-Enemy Leagues;and simply pocket the money that was heapedon them. Attractively dressed young womenfound that they had nothing to do but pa-rade the streets, collecting-box in hand, andlive gloriously on the profits. Many monthselapsed before, as a first sign of returning san-ity, the police swept an Anti-Enemy secretaryinto prison pour encourages les autres, and thepassionate penny collecting of the Flag Dayswas brought under some sort of regulation.

Madness in CourtThe demoralization did not spare the LawCourts. Soldiers were acquitted, even on fullyproved indictments for wilful murder, until atlast the judges and magistrates had to an-nounce that what was called the UnwrittenLaw, which meant simply that a soldier coulddo what he liked with impunity in civil life,was not the law of the land, and that a Vic-toria Cross did not carry with it a perpetual

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plenary indulgence. Unfortunately the insan-ity of the juries and magistrates did not al-ways manifest itself in indulgence. No per-son unlucky enough to be charged with anysort of conduct, however reasonable and salu-tary, that did not smack of war delirium, hadthe slightest chance of acquittal. There werein the country, too, a certain number of peo-ple who had conscientious objections to waras criminal or unchristian. The Act of Par-liament introducing Compulsory Military Ser-vice thoughtlessly exempted these persons,merely requiring them to prove the genuine-ness of their convictions. Those who did sowere very ill-advised from the point of viewof their own personal interest; for they werepersecuted with savage logicality in spite ofthe law; whilst those who made no pretence ofhaving any objection to war at all, and had notonly had military training in Officers’ Train-ing Corps, but had proclaimed on public occa-sions that they were perfectly ready to engagein civil war on behalf of their political opin-ions, were allowed the benefit of the Act on theground that they did not approve of this par-ticular war. For the Christians there was nomercy. In cases where the evidence as to theirbeing killed by ill treatment was so unequivo-cal that the verdict would certainly have beenone of wilful murder had the prejudice of the

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coroner’s jury been on the other side, theirtormentors were gratuitously declared to beblameless. There was only one virtue, pug-nacity: only one vice, pacifism. That is an es-sential condition of war; but the Governmenthad not the courage to legislate accordingly;and its law was set aside for Lynch law.

The climax of legal lawlessness wasreached in France. The greatest Socialiststatesman in Europe, Jaures, was shot andkilled by a gentleman who resented his effortsto avert the war. M. Clemenceau was shot byanother gentleman of less popular opinions,and happily came off no worse than having tospend a precautionary couple of days in bed.The slayer of Jaures was recklessly acquit-ted: the would-be slayer of M. Clemenceauwas carefully found guilty. There is no rea-son to doubt that the same thing would havehappened in England if the war had begunwith a successful attempt to assassinate KeirHardie, and ended with an unsuccessful oneto assassinate Mr Lloyd George.

The Long Arm of WarThe pestilence which is the usual accompani-ment of war was called influenza. Whether itwas really a war pestilence or not was madedoubtful by the fact that it did its worst in

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places remote from the battlefields, notably onthe west coast of North America and in India.But the moral pestilence, which was unques-tionably a war pestilence, reproduced thisphenomenon. One would have supposed thatthe war fever would have raged most furiouslyin the countries actually under fire, and thatthe others would be more reasonable. Bel-gium and Flanders, where over large districtsliterally not one stone was left upon anotheras the opposed armies drove each other backand forward over it after terrific preliminarybombardments, might have been pardonedfor relieving their feelings more emphaticallythan by shrugging their shoulders and say-ing, “C’est la guerre.” England, inviolate for somany centuries that the swoop of war on herhomesteads had long ceased to be more credi-ble than a return of the Flood, could hardly beexpected to keep her temper sweet when sheknew at last what it was to hide in cellars andunderground railway stations, or lie quakingin bed, whilst bombs crashed, houses crum-bled, and aircraft guns distributed shrapnelon friend and foe alike until certain shop win-dows in London, formerly full of fashionablehats, were filled with steel helmets. Slain andmutilated women and children, and burnt andwrecked dwellings, excuse a good deal of vio-lent language, and produce a wrath on which

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many suns go down before it is appeased. Yetit was in the United States of America wherenobody slept the worse for the war, that thewar fever went beyond all sense and reason.In European Courts there was vindictive ille-gality: in American Courts there was ravinglunacy. It is not for me to chronicle the ex-travagances of an Ally: let some candid Amer-ican do that. I can only say that to us sit-ting in our gardens in England, with the gunsin France making themselves felt by a throbin the air as unmistakeable as an audiblesound, or with tightening hearts studying thephases of the moon in London in their bearingon the chances whether our houses would bestanding or ourselves alive next morning, thenewspaper accounts of the sentences Ameri-can Courts were passing on young girls andold men alike for the expression of opinionswhich were being uttered amid thunderingapplause before huge audiences in England,and the more private records of the meth-ods by which the American War Loans wereraised, were so amazing that they put theguns and the possibilities of a raid clean outof our heads for the moment.

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The Rabid Watchdogs ofLibertyNot content with these rancorous abuses ofthe existing law, the war maniacs made afrantic rush to abolish all constitutional guar-antees of liberty and well-being. The ordi-nary law was superseded by Acts under whichnewspapers were seized and their printingmachinery destroyed by simple police raids ala Russe, and persons arrested and shot with-out any pretence of trial by jury or public-ity of procedure or evidence. Though it wasurgently necessary that production should beincreased by the most scientific organizationand economy of labor, and though no fact wasbetter established than that excessive dura-tion and intensity of toil reduces productionheavily instead of increasing it, the factorylaws were suspended, and men and womenrecklessly over-worked until the loss of theirefficiency became too glaring to be ignored.Remonstrances and warnings were met eitherwith an accusation of pro-Germanism or theformula, “Remember that we are at war now.”I have said that men assumed that war hadreversed the order of nature, and that all waslost unless we did the exact opposite of ev-erything we had found necessary and benefi-cial in peace. But the truth was worse than

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that. The war did not change men’s minds inany such impossible way. What really hap-pened was that the impact of physical deathand destruction, the one reality that every foolcan understand, tore off the masks of edu-cation, art, science and religion from our ig-norance and barbarism, and left us gloryinggrotesquely in the licence suddenly accordedto our vilest passions and most abject terrors.Ever since Thucydides wrote his history, it hasbeen on record that when the angel of deathsounds his trumpet the pretences of civiliza-tion are blown from men’s heads into the mudlike hats in a gust of wind. But when thisscripture was fulfilled among us, the shockwas not the less appalling because a few stu-dents of Greek history were not surprised byit. Indeed these students threw themselvesinto the orgy as shamelessly as the illiterate.The Christian priest, joining in the war dancewithout even throwing off his cassock first,and the respectable school governor expellingthe German professor with insult and bodilyviolence, and declaring that no English childshould ever again be taught the language ofLuther and Goethe, were kept in countenanceby the most impudent repudiations of everydecency of civilization and every lesson of po-litical experience on the part of the very per-sons who, as university professors, historians,

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philosophers, and men of science, were the ac-credited custodians of culture. It was crudelynatural, and perhaps necessary for recruitingpurposes, that German militarism and Ger-man dynastic ambition should be painted byjournalists and recruiters in black and red asEuropean dangers (as in fact they are), leav-ing it to be inferred that our own militarismand our own political constitution are millen-nially democratic (which they certainly arenot); but when it came to frantic denuncia-tions of German chemistry, German biology,German poetry, German music, German lit-erature, German philosophy, and even Ger-man engineering, as malignant abominationsstanding towards British and French chem-istry and so forth in the relation of heaven tohell, it was clear that the utterers of such bar-barous ravings had never really understood orcared for the arts and sciences they professedand were profaning, and were only the ap-pallingly degenerate descendants of the menof the seventeenth and eighteenth centurieswho, recognizing no national frontiers in thegreat realm of the human mind, kept the Eu-ropean comity of that realm loftily and evenostentatiously above the rancors of the battle-field. Tearing the Garter from the Kaiser’sleg, striking the German dukes from the rollof our peerage, changing the King’s illustrious

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and historically appropriate surname (for thewar was the old war of Guelph against Ghi-belline, with the Kaiser as Arch-Ghibelline) tothat of a traditionless locality. One felt thatthe figure of St. George and the Dragon onour coinage should be replaced by that of thesoldier driving his spear through Archimedes.But by that time there was no coinage: onlypaper money in which ten shillings called it-self a pound as confidently as the people whowere disgracing their country called them-selves patriots.

The Sufferings of the SaneThe mental distress of living amid the obscenedin of all these carmagnoles and corobberieswas not the only burden that lay on sane peo-ple during the war. There was also the emo-tional strain, complicated by the offended eco-nomic sense, produced by the casualty lists.The stupid, the selfish, the narrow-minded,the callous and unimaginative were spared agreat deal. “Blood and destruction shall be soin use that mothers shall but smile when theybehold their infants quartered by the handsof war,” was a Shakespearean prophecy thatvery nearly came true; for when nearly ev-ery house had a slaughtered son to mourn, weshould all have gone quite out of our senses

26 Heartbreak House

if we had taken our own and our friend’s be-reavements at their peace value. It becamenecessary to give them a false value; to pro-claim the young life worthily and gloriouslysacrificed to redeem the liberty of mankind,instead of to expiate the heedlessness andfolly of their fathers, and expiate it in vain.We had even to assume that the parents andnot the children had made the sacrifice, un-til at last the comic papers were driven tosatirize fat old men, sitting comfortably inclub chairs, and boasting of the sons they had“given” to their country.

No one grudged these anodynes to acutepersonal grief; but they only embittered thosewho knew that the young men were havingtheir teeth set on edge because their parentshad eaten sour political grapes. Then thinkof the young men themselves! Many of themhad no illusions about the policy that led tothe war: they went clear-sighted to a hor-ribly repugnant duty. Men essentially gen-tle and essentially wise, with really valuablework in hand, laid it down voluntarily andspent months forming fours in the barrackyard, and stabbing sacks of straw in the pub-lic eye, so that they might go out to kill andmaim men as gentle as themselves. Thesemen, who were perhaps, as a class, our mostefficient soldiers (Frederick Keeling, for exam-

PREFACE 27

ple), were not duped for a moment by the hyp-ocritical melodrama that consoled and stim-ulated the others. They left their creativework to drudge at destruction, exactly as theywould have left it to take their turn at thepumps in a sinking ship. They did not, likesome of the conscientious objectors, hold backbecause the ship had been neglected by its of-ficers and scuttled by its wreckers. The shiphad to be saved, even if Newton had to leavehis fluxions and Michael Angelo his marblesto save it; so they threw away the tools of theirbeneficent and ennobling trades, and took upthe blood-stained bayonet and the murder-ous bomb, forcing themselves to pervert theirdivine instinct for perfect artistic executionto the effective handling of these diabolicalthings, and their economic faculty for organi-zation to the contriving of ruin and slaughter.For it gave an ironic edge to their tragedy thatthe very talents they were forced to prostitutemade the prostitution not only effective, buteven interesting; so that some of them wererapidly promoted, and found themselves actu-ally becoming artists in wax, with a growingrelish for it, like Napoleon and all the otherscourges of mankind, in spite of themselves.For many of them there was not even this con-solation. They “stuck it,” and hated it, to theend.

28 Heartbreak House

Evil in the Throne of GoodThis distress of the gentle was so acute thatthose who shared it in civil life, without hav-ing to shed blood with their own hands, or wit-ness destruction with their own eyes, hardlycare to obtrude their own woes. Nevertheless,even when sitting at home in safety, it wasnot easy for those who had to write and speakabout the war to throw away their highestconscience, and deliberately work to a stan-dard of inevitable evil instead of to the idealof life more abundant. I can answer for atleast one person who found the change fromthe wisdom of Jesus and St. Francis to themorals of Richard III and the madness of DonQuixote extremely irksome. But that changehad to be made; and we are all the worse forit, except those for whom it was not really achange at all, but only a relief from hypocrisy.

Think, too, of those who, though they hadneither to write nor to fight, and had no chil-dren of their own to lose, yet knew the in-estimable loss to the world of four years ofthe life of a generation wasted on destruc-tion. Hardly one of the epoch-making works ofthe human mind might not have been abortedor destroyed by taking their authors awayfrom their natural work for four critical years.Not only were Shakespeares and Platos be-

PREFACE 29

ing killed outright; but many of the best har-vests of the survivors had to be sown in thebarren soil of the trenches. And this was nomere British consideration. To the truly civi-lized man, to the good European, the slaugh-ter of the German youth was as disastrous asthe slaughter of the English. Fools exulted in“German losses.” They were our losses as well.Imagine exulting in the death of Beethovenbecause Bill Sykes dealt him his death blow!

Straining at the Gnat andswallowing the CamelBut most people could not comprehend thesesorrows. There was a frivolous exultation indeath for its own sake, which was at bottoman inability to realize that the deaths werereal deaths and not stage ones. Again andagain, when an air raider dropped a bombwhich tore a child and its mother limb fromlimb, the people who saw it, though they hadbeen reading with great cheerfulness of thou-sands of such happenings day after day intheir newspapers, suddenly burst into furi-ous imprecations on “the Huns” as murder-ers, and shrieked for savage and satisfyingvengeance. At such moments it became clearthat the deaths they had not seen meant no

30 Heartbreak House

more to them than the mimic death of thecinema screen. Sometimes it was not neces-sary that death should be actually witnessed:it had only to take place under circumstancesof sufficient novelty and proximity to bring ithome almost as sensationally and effectivelyas if it had been actually visible.

For example, in the spring of 1915 therewas an appalling slaughter of our young sol-diers at Neuve Chapelle and at the Gallipolilanding. I will not go so far as to say thatour civilians were delighted to have such ex-citing news to read at breakfast. But I can-not pretend that I noticed either in the pa-pers, or in general intercourse, any feeling be-yond the usual one that the cinema show atthe front was going splendidly, and that ourboys were the bravest of the brave. Suddenlythere came the news that an Atlantic liner,the Lusitania, had been torpedoed, and thatseveral well-known first-class passengers, in-cluding a famous theatrical manager and theauthor of a popular farce, had been drowned,among others. The others included Sir HughLane; but as he had only laid the country un-der great obligations in the sphere of the finearts, no great stress was laid on that loss. Im-mediately an amazing frenzy swept throughthe country. Men who up to that time had kepttheir heads now lost them utterly. “Killing sa-

PREFACE 31

loon passengers! What next?” was the essenceof the whole agitation; but it is far too triv-ial a phrase to convey the faintest notion ofthe rage which possessed us. To me, withmy mind full of the hideous cost of NeuveChapelle, Ypres, and the Gallipoli landing,the fuss about the Lusitania seemed almosta heartless impertinence, though I was wellacquainted personally with the three best-known victims, and understood, better per-haps than most people, the misfortune of thedeath of Lane. I even found a grim sat-isfaction, very intelligible to all soldiers, inthe fact that the civilians who found the warsuch splendid British sport should get a sharptaste of what it was to the actual combat-ants. I expressed my impatience very freely,and found that my very straightforward andnatural feeling in the matter was received asa monstrous and heartless paradox. When Iasked those who gaped at me whether theyhad anything to say about the holocaust ofFestubert, they gaped wider than before, hav-ing totally forgotten it, or rather, having neverrealized it. They were not heartless anymorethan I was; but the big catastrophe was toobig for them to grasp, and the little one hadbeen just the right size for them. I was notsurprised. Have I not seen a public body forjust the same reason pass a vote for £30,000

32 Heartbreak House

without a word, and then spend three specialmeetings, prolonged into the night, over anitem of seven shillings for refreshments?

Little Minds and Big BattlesNobody will be able to understand the va-garies of public feeling during the war unlessthey bear constantly in mind that the war inits entire magnitude did not exist for the av-erage civilian. He could not conceive even abattle, much less a campaign. To the suburbsthe war was nothing but a suburban squab-ble. To the miner and navvy it was only a se-ries of bayonet fights between German cham-pions and English ones. The enormity of itwas quite beyond most of us. Its episodeshad to be reduced to the dimensions of a rail-way accident or a shipwreck before it couldproduce any effect on our minds at all. Tous the ridiculous bombardments of Scarbor-ough and Ramsgate were colossal tragedies,and the battle of Jutland a mere ballad. Thewords “after thorough artillery preparation”in the news from the front meant nothing tous; but when our seaside trippers learned thatan elderly gentleman at breakfast in a week-end marine hotel had been interrupted by abomb dropping into his egg-cup, their wrathand horror knew no bounds. They declared

PREFACE 33

that this would put a new spirit into the army;and had no suspicion that the soldiers inthe trenches roared with laughter over it fordays, and told each other that it would do theblighters at home good to have a taste of whatthe army was up against. Sometimes thesmallness of view was pathetic. A man wouldwork at home regardless of the call “to makethe world safe for democracy.” His brotherwould be killed at the front. Immediately hewould throw up his work and take up the waras a family blood feud against the Germans.Sometimes it was comic. A wounded man,entitled to his discharge, would return to thetrenches with a grim determination to find theHun who had wounded him and pay him outfor it.

It is impossible to estimate what propor-tion of us, in khaki or out of it, grasped thewar and its political antecedents as a wholein the light of any philosophy of history orknowledge of what war is. I doubt whetherit was as high as our proportion of highermathematicians. But there can be no doubtthat it was prodigiously outnumbered by thecomparatively ignorant and childish. Remem-ber that these people had to be stimulatedto make the sacrifices demanded by the war,and that this could not be done by appealsto a knowledge which they did not possess,

34 Heartbreak House

and a comprehension of which they were inca-pable. When the armistice at last set me freeto tell the truth about the war at the follow-ing general election, a soldier said to a candi-date whom I was supporting, “If I had knownall that in 1914, they would never have gotme into khaki.” And that, of course, was pre-cisely why it had been necessary to stuff himwith a romance that any diplomatist wouldhave laughed at. Thus the natural confu-sion of ignorance was increased by a deliber-ately propagated confusion of nursery bogeystories and melodramatic nonsense, which atlast overreached itself and made it impossi-ble to stop the war before we had not onlyachieved the triumph of vanquishing the Ger-man army and thereby overthrowing its mil-itarist monarchy, but made the very seriousmistake of ruining the centre of Europe, athing that no sane European State could af-ford to do.

The Dumb Capables and theNoisy IncapablesConfronted with this picture of insensatedelusion and folly, the critical reader will im-mediately counterplead that England all thistime was conducting a war which involved

PREFACE 35

the organization of several millions of fight-ing men and of the workers who were sup-plying them with provisions, munitions, andtransport, and that this could not have beendone by a mob of hysterical ranters. This isfortunately true. To pass from the newspaperoffices and political platforms and club fend-ers and suburban drawing-rooms to the Armyand the munition factories was to pass fromBedlam to the busiest and sanest of workadayworlds. It was to rediscover England, and findsolid ground for the faith of those who stillbelieved in her. But a necessary condition ofthis efficiency was that those who were effi-cient should give all their time to their busi-ness and leave the rabble raving to its heart’scontent. Indeed the raving was useful to theefficient, because, as it was always wide of themark, it often distracted attention very conve-niently from operations that would have beendefeated or hindered by publicity. A preceptwhich I endeavored vainly to popularize earlyin the war, “If you have anything to do go anddo it: if not, for heaven’s sake get out of theway,” was only half carried out. Certainly thecapable people went and did it; but the in-capables would by no means get out of theway: they fussed and bawled and were onlyprevented from getting very seriously into theway by the blessed fact that they never knew

36 Heartbreak House

where the way was. Thus whilst all the effi-ciency of England was silent and invisible, allits imbecility was deafening the heavens withits clamor and blotting out the sun with itsdust. It was also unfortunately intimidatingthe Government by its blusterings into usingthe irresistible powers of the State to intimi-date the sensible people, thus enabling a de-spicable minority of would-be lynchers to setup a reign of terror which could at any timehave been broken by a single stern word froma responsible minister. But our ministers hadnot that sort of courage: neither HeartbreakHouse nor Horseback Hall had bred it, muchless the suburbs. When matters at last cameto the looting of shops by criminals under pa-triotic pretexts, it was the police force and notthe Government that put its foot down. Therewas even one deplorable moment, during thesubmarine scare, in which the Governmentyielded to a childish cry for the maltreatmentof naval prisoners of war, and, to our greatdisgrace, was forced by the enemy to behaveitself. And yet behind all this public blunder-ing and misconduct and futile mischief, theeffective England was carrying on with themost formidable capacity and activity. The os-tensible England was making the empire sickwith its incontinences, its ignorances, its fe-rocities, its panics, and its endless and intol-

PREFACE 37

erable blarings of Allied national anthems inseason and out. The esoteric England wasproceeding irresistibly to the conquest of Eu-rope.

The Practical Business MenFrom the beginning the useless people set upa shriek for “practical business men.” By thisthey meant men who had become rich by plac-ing their personal interests before those of thecountry, and measuring the success of everyactivity by the pecuniary profit it brought tothem and to those on whom they depended fortheir supplies of capital. The pitiable failureof some conspicuous samples from the firstbatch we tried of these poor devils helped togive the whole public side of the war an air ofmonstrous and hopeless farce. They provednot only that they were useless for publicwork, but that in a well-ordered nation theywould never have been allowed to control pri-vate enterprise.

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How the Fools shouted theWise Men downThus, like a fertile country flooded with mud,England showed no sign of her greatness inthe days when she was putting forth all herstrength to save herself from the worst con-sequences of her littleness. Most of the menof action, occupied to the last hour of theirtime with urgent practical work, had to leaveto idler people, or to professional rhetoricians,the presentation of the war to the reason andimagination of the country and the world inspeeches, poems, manifestoes, picture posters,and newspaper articles. I have had the priv-ilege of hearing some of our ablest comman-ders talking about their work; and I haveshared the common lot of reading the accountsof that work given to the world by the newspa-pers. No two experiences could be more differ-ent. But in the end the talkers obtained a dan-gerous ascendancy over the rank and file ofthe men of action; for though the great men ofaction are always inveterate talkers and oftenvery clever writers, and therefore cannot havetheir minds formed for them by others, the av-erage man of action, like the average fighterwith the bayonet, can give no account of him-self in words even to himself, and is apt to pickup and accept what he reads about himself

PREFACE 39

and other people in the papers, except whenthe writer is rash enough to commit himselfon technical points. It was not uncommonduring the war to hear a soldier, or a civil-ian engaged on war work, describing eventswithin his own experience that reduced to ut-ter absurdity the ravings and maunderings ofhis daily paper, and yet echo the opinions ofthat paper like a parrot. Thus, to escape fromthe prevailing confusion and folly, it was notenough to seek the company of the ordinaryman of action: one had to get into contactwith the master spirits. This was a privilegewhich only a handful of people could enjoy.For the unprivileged citizen there was no es-cape. To him the whole country seemed mad,futile, silly, incompetent, with no hope of vic-tory except the hope that the enemy might bejust as mad. Only by very resolute reflectionand reasoning could he reassure himself thatif there was nothing more solid beneath theirappalling appearances the war could not pos-sibly have gone on for a single day without atotal breakdown of its organization.

The Mad ElectionHappy were the fools and the thoughtless menof action in those days. The worst of it wasthat the fools were very strongly represented

40 Heartbreak House

in parliament, as fools not only elect fools, butcan persuade men of action to elect them too.The election that immediately followed thearmistice was perhaps the maddest that hasever taken place. Soldiers who had done vol-untary and heroic service in the field were de-feated by persons who had apparently neverrun a risk or spent a farthing that they couldavoid, and who even had in the course of theelection to apologize publicly for bawling Paci-fist or Pro-German at their opponent. Partyleaders seek such followers, who can alwaysbe depended on to walk tamely into the lobbyat the party whip’s orders, provided the leaderwill make their seats safe for them by the pro-cess which was called, in derisive reference tothe war rationing system, “giving them thecoupon.” Other incidents were so grotesquethat I cannot mention them without enablingthe reader to identify the parties, which wouldnot be fair, as they were no more to blamethan thousands of others who must neces-sarily be nameless. The general result waspatently absurd; and the electorate, disgustedat its own work, instantly recoiled to the oppo-site extreme, and cast out all the coupon can-didates at the earliest bye-elections by equallysilly majorities. But the mischief of the gen-eral election could not be undone; and theGovernment had not only to pretend to abuse

PREFACE 41

its European victory as it had promised, butactually to do it by starving the enemies whohad thrown down their arms. It had, in short,won the election by pledging itself to be thrift-lessly wicked, cruel, and vindictive; and it didnot find it as easy to escape from this pledgeas it had from nobler ones. The end, as I write,is not yet; but it is clear that this thought-less savagery will recoil on the heads of theAllies so severely that we shall be forced bythe sternest necessity to take up our share ofhealing the Europe we have wounded almostto death instead of attempting to complete herdestruction.

The Yahoo and the AngryApeContemplating this picture of a state ofmankind so recent that no denial of its truth ispossible, one understands Shakespeare com-paring Man to an angry ape, Swift describinghim as a Yahoo rebuked by the superior virtueof the horse, and Wellington declaring thatthe British can behave themselves neither invictory nor defeat. Yet none of the three hadseen war as we have seen it. Shakespeareblamed great men, saying that “Could greatmen thunder as Jove himself does, Jove would

42 Heartbreak House

ne’er be quiet; for every pelting petty officerwould use his heaven for thunder: nothing butthunder.” What would Shakespeare have saidif he had seen something far more destructivethan thunder in the hand of every village la-borer, and found on the Messines Ridge thecraters of the nineteen volcanoes that were letloose there at the touch of a finger that mighthave been a child’s finger without the resultbeing a whit less ruinous? Shakespeare mayhave seen a Stratford cottage struck by one ofJove’s thunderbolts, and have helped to extin-guish the lighted thatch and clear away thebits of the broken chimney. What would hehave said if he had seen Ypres as it is now,or returned to Stratford, as French peasantsare returning to their homes to-day, to find theold familiar signpost inscribed “To Stratford, 1mile,” and at the end of the mile nothing butsome holes in the ground and a fragment ofa broken churn here and there? Would notthe spectacle of the angry ape endowed withpowers of destruction that Jove never pre-tended to, have beggared even his commandof words?

And yet, what is there to say except thatwar puts a strain on human nature thatbreaks down the better half of it, and makesthe worse half a diabolical virtue? Better forus if it broke it down altogether, for then the

PREFACE 43

warlike way out of our difficulties would bebarred to us, and we should take greater carenot to get into them. In truth, it is, as By-ron said, “not difficult to die,” and enormouslydifficult to live: that explains why, at bot-tom, peace is not only better than war, but in-finitely more arduous. Did any hero of the warface the glorious risk of death more bravelythan the traitor Bolo faced the ignominiouscertainty of it? Bolo taught us all how to die:can we say that he taught us all how to live?Hardly a week passes now without some sol-dier who braved death in the field so reck-lessly that he was decorated or specially com-mended for it, being haled before our mag-istrates for having failed to resist the paltri-est temptations of peace, with no better ex-cuse than the old one that “a man must live.”Strange that one who, sooner than do hon-est work, will sell his honor for a bottle ofwine, a visit to the theatre, and an hour witha strange woman, all obtained by passing aworthless cheque, could yet stake his life onthe most desperate chances of the battle-field!Does it not seem as if, after all, the glory ofdeath were cheaper than the glory of life? If itis not easier to attain, why do so many moremen attain it? At all events it is clear thatthe kingdom of the Prince of Peace has notyet become the kingdom of this world. His

44 Heartbreak House

attempts at invasion have been resisted farmore fiercely than the Kaiser’s. Successful asthat resistance has been, it has piled up a sortof National Debt that is not the less oppres-sive because we have no figures for it and donot intend to pay it. A blockade that cuts off“the grace of our Lord” is in the long run lessbearable than the blockades which merely cutoff raw materials; and against that blockadeour Armada is impotent. In the blockader’shouse, he has assured us, there are manymansions; but I am afraid they do not includeeither Heartbreak House or Horseback Hall.

Plague on Both yourHouses!Meanwhile the Bolshevist picks and pétardsare at work on the foundations of both build-ings; and though the Bolshevists may beburied in the ruins, their deaths will not savethe edifices. Unfortunately they can be builtagain. Like Doubting Castle, they have beendemolished many times by successive Great-hearts, and rebuilt by Simple, Sloth, and Pre-sumption, by Feeble Mind and Much Afraid,and by all the jurymen of Vanity Fair. An-other generation of “secondary education” atour ancient public schools and the cheaper

PREFACE 45

institutions that ape them will be quite suf-ficient to keep the two going until the nextwar. For the instruction of that generation Ileave these pages as a record of what civilianlife was during the war: a matter on whichhistory is usually silent. Fortunately it wasa very short war. It is true that the peo-ple who thought it could not last more thansix months were very signally refuted by theevent. As Sir Douglas Haig has pointed out,its Waterloos lasted months instead of hours.But there would have been nothing surprisingin its lasting thirty years. If it had not been forthe fact that the blockade achieved the amaz-ing feat of starving out Europe, which it couldnot possibly have done had Europe been prop-erly organized for war, or even for peace, thewar would have lasted until the belligerentswere so tired of it that they could no longerbe compelled to compel themselves to go onwith it. Considering its magnitude, the war of1914-18 will certainly be classed as the short-est in history. The end came so suddenly thatthe combatant literally stumbled over it; andyet it came a full year later than it shouldhave come if the belligerents had not beenfar too afraid of one another to face the sit-uation sensibly. Germany, having failed toprovide for the war she began, failed againto surrender before she was dangerously ex-

46 Heartbreak House

hausted. Her opponents, equally improvident,went as much too close to bankruptcy as Ger-many to starvation. It was a bluff at whichboth were bluffed. And, with the usual ironyof war, it remains doubtful whether Germanyand Russia, the defeated, will not be the gain-ers; for the victors are already busy fasten-ing on themselves the chains they have struckfrom the limbs of the vanquished.

How the Theatre faredLet us now contract our view rather violentlyfrom the European theatre of war to the the-atre in which the fights are sham fights, andthe slain, rising the moment the curtain hasfallen, go comfortably home to supper afterwashing off their rose-pink wounds. It isnearly twenty years since I was last obligedto introduce a play in the form of a book forlack of an opportunity of presenting it in itsproper mode by a performance in a theatre.The war has thrown me back on this expedi-ent. Heartbreak House has not yet reachedthe stage. I have withheld it because the warhas completely upset the economic conditionswhich formerly enabled serious drama to payits way in London. The change is not in thetheatres nor in the management of them, norin the authors and actors, but in the audi-

PREFACE 47

ences. For four years the London theatreswere crowded every night with thousands ofsoldiers on leave from the front. These sol-diers were not seasoned London playgoers. Achildish experience of my own gave me a clueto their condition. When I was a small boy Iwas taken to the opera. I did not then knowwhat an opera was, though I could whistle agood deal of opera music. I had seen in mymother’s album photographs of all the greatopera singers, mostly in evening dress. In thetheatre I found myself before a gilded balconyfilled with persons in evening dress whom Itook to be the opera singers. I picked out onemassive dark lady as Alboni, and wonderedhow soon she would stand up and sing. I waspuzzled by the fact that I was made to sit withmy back to the singers instead of facing them.When the curtain went up, my astonishmentand delight were unbounded.

The Soldier at the TheatreFrontIn 1915, I saw in the theatres men in khaki injust the same predicament. To everyone whohad my clue to their state of mind it was evi-dent that they had never been in a theatre be-fore and did not know what it was. At one of

48 Heartbreak House

our great variety theatres I sat beside a youngofficer, not at all a rough specimen, who, evenwhen the curtain rose and enlightened himas to the place where he had to look for hisentertainment, found the dramatic part of itutterly incomprehensible. He did not knowhow to play his part of the game. He couldunderstand the people on the stage singingand dancing and performing gymnastic feats.He not only understood but intensely enjoyedan artist who imitated cocks crowing and pigssqueaking. But the people who pretendedthat they were somebody else, and that thepainted picture behind them was real, bewil-dered him. In his presence I realized how verysophisticated the natural man has to becomebefore the conventions of the theatre can beeasily acceptable, or the purpose of the dramaobvious to him.

Well, from the moment when the rou-tine of leave for our soldiers was established,such novices, accompanied by damsels (calledflappers) often as innocent as themselves,crowded the theatres to the doors. It washardly possible at first to find stuff crudeenough to nurse them on. The best music-hall comedians ransacked their memories forthe oldest quips and the most childish an-tics to avoid carrying the military spectatorsout of their depth. I believe that this was

PREFACE 49

a mistake as far as the novices were con-cerned. Shakespeare, or the dramatized histo-ries of George Barnwell, Maria Martin, or theDemon Barber of Fleet Street, would proba-bly have been quite popular with them. Butthe novices were only a minority after all.The cultivated soldier, who in time of peacewould look at nothing theatrical except themost advanced post-Ibsen plays in the mostartistic settings, found himself, to his own as-tonishment, thirsting for silly jokes, dances,and brainlessly sensuous exhibitions of prettygirls. The author of some of the most grimlyserious plays of our time told me that afterenduring the trenches for months without aglimpse of the female of his species, it gavehim an entirely innocent but delightful plea-sure merely to see a flapper. The reaction fromthe battle-field produced a condition of hyper-æsthesia in which all the theatrical valueswere altered. Trivial things gained intensityand stale things novelty. The actor, instead ofhaving to coax his audiences out of the bore-dom which had driven them to the theatrein an ill humor to seek some sort of distrac-tion, had only to exploit the bliss of smilingmen who were no longer under fire and un-der military discipline, but actually clean andcomfortable and in a mood to be pleased withanything and everything that a bevy of pretty

50 Heartbreak House

girls and a funny man, or even a bevy of girlspretending to be pretty and a man pretendingto be funny, could do for them.

Then could be seen every night in the the-atres oldfashioned farcical comedies, in whicha bedroom, with four doors on each side anda practicable window in the middle, was un-derstood to resemble exactly the bedroom inthe flats beneath and above, all three inhab-ited by couples consumed with jealousy. Whenthese people came home drunk at night; mis-took their neighbor’s flats for their own; andin due course got into the wrong beds, it wasnot only the novices who found the resultingcomplications and scandals exquisitely inge-nious and amusing, nor their equally verdantflappers who could not help squealing in amanner that astonished the oldest perform-ers when the gentleman who had just come indrunk through the window pretended to un-dress, and allowed glimpses of his naked per-son to be descried from time to time.

Heartbreak HouseMen who had just read the news that CharlesWyndham was dying, and were thereby sadlyreminded of Pink Dominos and the torrent offarcical comedies that followed it in his hey-day until every trick of that trade had be-

PREFACE 51

come so stale that the laughter they provokedturned to loathing: these veterans also, whenthey returned from the field, were as muchpleased by what they knew to be stale andfoolish as the novices by what they thoughtfresh and clever.

Commerce in the TheatreWellington said that an army moves on itsbelly. So does a London theatre. Before a manacts he must eat. Before he performs plays hemust pay rent. In London we have no theatresfor the welfare of the people: they are all forthe sole purpose of producing the utmost ob-tainable rent for the proprietor. If the twinflats and twin beds produce a guinea morethan Shakespeare, out goes Shakespeare andin come the twin flats and the twin beds. If thebrainless bevy of pretty girls and the funnyman outbid Mozart, out goes Mozart.

Unser ShakespeareBefore the war an effort was made to remedythis by establishing a national theatre in cel-ebration of the tercentenary of the death ofShakespeare. A committee was formed; andall sorts of illustrious and influential persons

52 Heartbreak House

lent their names to a grand appeal to our na-tional culture. My play, The Dark Lady of TheSonnets, was one of the incidents of that ap-peal. After some years of effort the result wasa single handsome subscription from a Ger-man gentleman. Like the celebrated swearerin the anecdote when the cart containing allhis household goods lost its tailboard at thetop of the hill and let its contents roll in ruinto the bottom, I can only say, “I cannot do jus-tice to this situation,” and let it pass withoutanother word.

The Higher Drama put outof ActionThe effect of the war on the London theatresmay now be imagined. The beds and the be-vies drove every higher form of art out of it.Rents went up to an unprecedented figure.At the same time prices doubled everywhereexcept at the theatre pay-boxes, and raisedthe expenses of management to such a degreethat unless the houses were quite full everynight, profit was impossible. Even bare sol-vency could not be attained without a verywide popularity. Now what had made seriousdrama possible to a limited extent before thewar was that a play could pay its way even

PREFACE 53

if the theatre were only half full until Sat-urday and three-quarters full then. A man-ager who was an enthusiast and a desper-ately hard worker, with an occasional grant-in-aid from an artistically disposed million-aire, and a due proportion of those rare andhappy accidents by which plays of the highersort turn out to be potboilers as well, couldhold out for some years, by which time a relaymight arrive in the person of another enthu-siast. Thus and not otherwise occurred thatremarkable revival of the British drama atthe beginning of the century which made myown career as a playwright possible in Eng-land. In America I had already establishedmyself, not as part of the ordinary theatre sys-tem, but in association with the exceptionalgenius of Richard Mansfield. In Germany andAustria I had no difficulty: the system of pub-licly aided theatres there, Court and Munic-ipal, kept drama of the kind I dealt in alive;so that I was indebted to the Emperor of Aus-tria for magnificent productions of my worksat a time when the sole official attention paidme by the British Courts was the announce-ment to the English-speaking world that cer-tain plays of mine were unfit for public perfor-mance, a substantial set-off against this be-ing that the British Court, in the course of itsprivate playgoing, paid no regard to the bad

54 Heartbreak House

character given me by the chief officer of itshousehold.

Howbeit, the fact that my plays effecteda lodgment on the London stage, and werepresently followed by the plays of GranvilleBarker, Gilbert Murray, John Masefield, St.John Hankin, Lawrence Housman, ArnoldBennett, John Galsworthy, John Drinkwater,and others which would in the nineteenth cen-tury have stood rather less chance of produc-tion at a London theatre than the Dialoguesof Plato, not to mention revivals of the ancientAthenian drama and a restoration to the stageof Shakespeare’s plays as he wrote them, wasmade economically possible solely by a sup-ply of theatres which could hold nearly twiceas much money as it cost to rent and main-tain them. In such theatres work appeal-ing to a relatively small class of cultivatedpersons, and therefore attracting only fromhalf to three-quarters as many spectators asthe more popular pastimes, could neverthe-less keep going in the hands of young adven-turers who were doing it for its own sake,and had not yet been forced by advancing ageand responsibilities to consider the commer-cial value of their time and energy too closely.The war struck this foundation away in themanner I have just described. The expenses ofrunning the cheapest west-end theatres rose

PREFACE 55

to a sum which exceeded by twenty-five percent the utmost that the higher drama can, asan ascertained matter of fact, be depended onto draw. Thus the higher drama, which hasnever really been a commercially sound spec-ulation, now became an impossible one. Ac-cordingly, attempts are being made to providea refuge for it in suburban theatres in Lon-don and repertory theatres in the provinces.But at the moment when the army has at lastdisgorged the survivors of the gallant band ofdramatic pioneers whom it swallowed, theyfind that the economic conditions which for-merly made their work no worse than precar-ious now put it out of the question altogether,as far as the west end of London is concerned.

Church and TheatreI do not suppose many people care particu-larly. We are not brought up to care; and asense of the national importance of the the-atre is not born in mankind: the naturalman, like so many of the soldiers at the be-ginning of the war, does not know what atheatre is. But please note that all thesesoldiers who did not know what a theatrewas, knew what a church was. And theyhad been taught to respect churches. No-body had ever warned them against a church

56 Heartbreak House

as a place where frivolous women paraded intheir best clothes; where stories of improperfemales like Potiphar’s wife, and erotic poetrylike the Song of Songs, were read aloud; wherethe sensuous and sentimental music of Schu-bert, Mendelssohn, Gounod, and Brahms wasmore popular than severe music by greatercomposers; where the prettiest sort of prettypictures of pretty saints assailed the imagi-nation and senses through stained-glass win-dows; and where sculpture and architecturecame to the help of painting. Nobody everreminded them that these things had some-times produced such developments of eroticidolatry that men who were not only enthu-siastic amateurs of literature, painting, andmusic, but famous practitioners of them, hadactually exulted when mobs and even regu-lar troops under express command had mu-tilated church statues, smashed church win-dows, wrecked church organs, and torn up thesheets from which the church music was readand sung. When they saw broken statues inchurches, they were told that this was thework of wicked, godless rioters, instead of, asit was, the work partly of zealots bent on driv-ing the world, the flesh, and the devil out ofthe temple, and partly of insurgent men whohad become intolerably poor because the tem-ple had become a den of thieves. But all the

PREFACE 57

sins and perversions that were so carefullyhidden from them in the history of the Churchwere laid on the shoulders of the Theatre:that stuffy, uncomfortable place of penance inwhich we suffer so much inconvenience on theslenderest chance of gaining a scrap of foodfor our starving souls. When the Germansbombed the Cathedral of Rheims the worldrang with the horror of the sacrilege. Whenthey bombed the Little Theatre in the Adel-phi, and narrowly missed bombing two writ-ers of plays who lived within a few yards ofit, the fact was not even mentioned in the pa-pers. In point of appeal to the senses no the-atre ever built could touch the fane at Rheims:no actress could rival its Virgin in beauty, norany operatic tenor look otherwise than a foolbeside its David. Its picture glass was glo-rious even to those who had seen the glassof Chartres. It was wonderful in its verygrotesques: who would look at the BlondinDonkey after seeing its leviathans? In spiteof the Adam-Adelphian decoration on whichMiss Kingston had lavished so much taste andcare, the Little Theatre was in comparisonwith Rheims the gloomiest of little conventi-cles: indeed the cathedral must, from the Pu-ritan point of view, have debauched a millionvoluptuaries for every one whom the LittleTheatre had sent home thoughtful to a chaste

58 Heartbreak House

bed after Mr Chesterton’s Magic or Brieux’sLes Avaries. Perhaps that is the real reasonwhy the Church is lauded and the Theatre re-viled. Whether or no, the fact remains thatthe lady to whose public spirit and sense of thenational value of the theatre I owed the firstregular public performance of a play of minehad to conceal her action as if it had been acrime, whereas if she had given the money tothe Church she would have worn a halo for it.And I admit, as I have always done, that thisstate of things may have been a very sensibleone. I have asked Londoners again and againwhy they pay half a guinea to go to a theatrewhen they can go to St. Paul’s or WestminsterAbbey for nothing. Their only possible replyis that they want to see something new andpossibly something wicked; but the theatresmostly disappoint both hopes. If ever a revo-lution makes me Dictator, I shall establish aheavy charge for admission to our churches.But everyone who pays at the church doorshall receive a ticket entitling him or her tofree admission to one performance at any the-atre he or she prefers. Thus shall the sensu-ous charms of the church service be made tosubsidize the sterner virtue of the drama.

PREFACE 59

The Next PhaseThe present situation will not last. Althoughthe newspaper I read at breakfast this morn-ing before writing these words contains a cal-culation that no less than twenty-three warsare at present being waged to confirm thepeace, England is no longer in khaki; and aviolent reaction is setting in against the crudetheatrical fare of the four terrible years. Soonthe rents of theatres will once more be fixedon the assumption that they cannot always befull, nor even on the average half full weekin and week out. Prices will change. Thehigher drama will be at no greater disadvan-tage than it was before the war; and it maybenefit, first, by the fact that many of us havebeen torn from the fools’ paradise in whichthe theatre formerly traded, and thrust uponthe sternest realities and necessities until wehave lost both faith in and patience with thetheatrical pretences that had no root either inreality or necessity; second, by the startlingchange made by the war in the distribution ofincome. It seems only the other day that a mil-lionaire was a man with 50,000 a year. To-day,when he has paid his income tax and supertax, and insured his life for the amount of hisdeath duties, he is lucky if his net income is£10,000 though his nominal property remains

60 Heartbreak House

the same. And this is the result of a Bud-get which is called “a respite for the rich.” Atthe other end of the scale millions of personshave had regular incomes for the first timein their lives; and their men have been regu-larly clothed, fed, lodged, and taught to makeup their minds that certain things have to bedone, also for the first time in their lives. Hun-dreds of thousands of women have been takenout of their domestic cages and tasted bothdiscipline and independence. The thoughtlessand snobbish middle classes have been pulledup short by the very unpleasant experience ofbeing ruined to an unprecedented extent. Wehave all had a tremendous jolt; and althoughthe widespread notion that the shock of thewar would automatically make a new heavenand a new earth, and that the dog would nevergo back to his vomit nor the sow to her wallow-ing in the mire, is already seen to be a delu-sion, yet we are far more conscious of our con-dition than we were, and far less disposed tosubmit to it. Revolution, lately only a sensa-tional chapter in history or a demagogic clap-trap, is now a possibility so imminent thathardly by trying to suppress it in other coun-tries by arms and defamation, and calling theprocess anti-Bolshevism, can our Governmentstave it off at home.

Perhaps the most tragic figure of the day is

PREFACE 61

the American President who was once a his-torian. In those days it became his task totell us how, after that great war in Americawhich was more clearly than any other warof our time a war for an idea, the conquerors,confronted with a heroic task of reconstruc-tion, turned recreant, and spent fifteen yearsin abusing their victory under cover of pre-tending to accomplish the task they were do-ing what they could to make impossible. Alas!Hegel was right when he said that we learnfrom history that men never learn anythingfrom history. With what anguish of mind thePresident sees that we, the new conquerors,forgetting everything we professed to fight for,are sitting down with watering mouths to agood square meal of ten years revenge uponand humiliation of our prostrate foe, can onlybe guessed by those who know, as he does,how hopeless is remonstrance, and how happyLincoln was in perishing from the earth be-fore his inspired messages became scraps ofpaper. He knows well that from the PeaceConference will come, in spite of his utmost,no edict on which he will be able, like Lin-coln, to invoke “the considerate judgment ofmankind: and the gracious favor of AlmightyGod.” He led his people to destroy the mili-tarism of Zabern; and the army they rescuedis busy in Cologne imprisoning every German

62 Heartbreak House

who does not salute a British officer; whilstthe government at home, asked whether it ap-proves, replies that it does not propose even todiscontinue this Zabernism when the Peace isconcluded, but in effect looks forward to mak-ing Germans salute British officers until theend of the world. That is what war makesof men and women. It will wear off; and theworst it threatens is already proving imprac-ticable; but before the humble and contriteheart ceases to be despised, the President andI, being of the same age, will be dotards. Inthe meantime there is, for him, another his-tory to write; for me, another comedy to stage.Perhaps, after all, that is what wars are for,and what historians and playwrights are for.If men will not learn until their lessons arewritten in blood, why, blood they must have,their own for preference.

The Ephemeral Thronesand the Eternal TheatreTo the theatre it will not matter. WhateverBastilles fall, the theatre will stand. Apos-tolic Hapsburg has collapsed; All Highest Ho-henzollern languishes in Holland, threatenedwith trial on a capital charge of fighting for hiscountry against England; Imperial Romanoff,

PREFACE 63

said to have perished miserably by a moresummary method of murder, is perhaps aliveor perhaps dead: nobody cares more than if hehad been a peasant; the lord of Hellas is levelwith his lackeys in republican Switzerland;Prime Ministers and Commanders-in-Chiefhave passed from a brief glory as Solons andCæsars into failure and obscurity as closely onone another’s heels as the descendants of Ban-quo; but Euripides and Aristophanes, Shake-speare and Moliere, Goethe and Ibsen remainfixed in their everlasting seats.

How War muzzles theDramatic PoetAs for myself, why, it may be asked, did Inot write two plays about the war instead oftwo pamphlets on it? The answer is signif-icant. You cannot make war on war and onyour neighbor at the same time. War can-not bear the terrible castigation of comedy,the ruthless light of laughter that glares onthe stage. When men are heroically dying fortheir country, it is not the time to show theirlovers and wives and fathers and mothers howthey are being sacrificed to the blunders ofboobies, the cupidity of capitalists, the ambi-tion of conquerors, the electioneering of dem-

64 Heartbreak House

agogues, the Pharisaism of patriots, the lustsand lies and rancors and bloodthirsts that lovewar because it opens their prison doors, andsets them in the thrones of power and popu-larity. For unless these things are mercilesslyexposed they will hide under the mantle of theideals on the stage just as they do in real life.

And though there may be better things toreveal, it may not, and indeed cannot, be mil-itarily expedient to reveal them whilst the is-sue is still in the balance. Truth telling is notcompatible with the defence of the realm. Weare just now reading the revelations of ourgenerals and admirals, unmuzzled at last bythe armistice. During the war, General A, inhis moving despatches from the field, told howGeneral B had covered himself with death-less glory in such and such a battle. He nowtells us that General B came within an aceof losing us the war by disobeying his orderson that occasion, and fighting instead of run-ning away as he ought to have done. An ex-cellent subject for comedy now that the war isover, no doubt; but if General A had let thisout at the time, what would have been theeffect on General B’s soldiers? And had thestage made known what the Prime Ministerand the Secretary of State for War who over-ruled General A thought of him, and what hethought of them, as now revealed in raging

PREFACE 65

controversy, what would have been the effecton the nation? That is why comedy, thoughsorely tempted, had to be loyally silent; for theart of the dramatic poet knows no patriotism;recognizes no obligation but truth to naturalhistory; cares not whether Germany or Eng-land perish; is ready to cry with Brynhild,“Lass’uns verderben, lachend zu grunde geh’n”sooner than deceive or be deceived; and thusbecomes in time of war a greater military dan-ger than poison, steel, or trinitrotoluene. Thatis why I had to withhold Heartbreak Housefrom the footlights during the war; for theGermans might on any night have turned thelast act from play into earnest, and even thenmight not have waited for their cues.

JUNE, 1919.

66 Heartbreak House

ACT I

The hilly country in the middle of the northedge of Sussex, looking very pleasant on afine evening at the end of September, is seenthrough the windows of a room which hasbeen built so as to resemble the after partof an old-fashioned high-pooped ship, with astern gallery; for the windows are ship builtwith heavy timbering, and run right acrossthe room as continuously as the stability of thewall allows. A row of lockers under the win-dows provides an unupholstered windowseatinterrupted by twin glass doors, respectivelyhalfway between the stern post and the sides.Another door strains the illusion a little bybeing apparently in the ship’s port side, andyet leading, not to the open sea, but to the en-trance hall of the house. Between this doorand the stern gallery are bookshelves. Thereare electric light switches beside the door lead-ing to the hall and the glass doors in the sterngallery. Against the starboard wall is a car-

67

68 Heartbreak House

penter’s bench. The vice has a board in itsjaws; and the floor is littered with shavings,overflowing from a waste-paper basket. A cou-ple of planes and a centrebit are on the bench.In the same wall, between the bench and thewindows, is a narrow doorway with a halfdoor, above which a glimpse of the room be-yond shows that it is a shelved pantry withbottles and kitchen crockery.

On the starboard side, but close to themiddle, is a plain oak drawing-table withdrawing-board, T-square, straightedges, setsquares, mathematical instruments, saucers ofwater color, a tumbler of discolored water, In-dian ink, pencils, and brushes on it. Thedrawing-board is set so that the draughts-man’s chair has the window on its left hand.On the floor at the end of the table, on its right,is a ship’s fire bucket. On the port side of theroom, near the bookshelves, is a sofa with itsback to the windows. It is a sturdy mahoganyarticle, oddly upholstered in sailcloth, includ-ing the bolster, with a couple of blankets hang-ing over the back. Between the sofa and thedrawing-table is a big wicker chair, with broadarms and a low sloping back, with its back tothe light. A small but stout table of teak, witha round top and gate legs, stands against theport wall between the door and the bookcase.It is the only article in the room that suggests

ACT I 69

(not at all convincingly) a woman’s hand inthe furnishing. The uncarpeted floor of narrowboards is caulked and holystoned like a deck.

The garden to which the glass doors leaddips to the south before the landscape risesagain to the hills. Emerging from the hollowis the cupola of an observatory. Between theobservatory and the house is a flagstaff on alittle esplanade, with a hammock on the eastside and a long garden seat on the west.

A young lady, gloved and hatted, with adust coat on, is sitting in the window-seatwith her body twisted to enable her to look outat the view. One hand props her chin: theother hangs down with a volume of the Tem-ple Shakespeare in it, and her finger stuck inthe page she has been reading.

A clock strikes six.The young lady turns and looks at her

watch. She rises with an air of one who waits,and is almost at the end of her patience. Sheis a pretty girl, slender, fair, and intelligentlooking, nicely but not expensively dressed, ev-idently not a smart idler.

With a sigh of weary resignation she comesto the draughtsman’s chair; sits down; and be-gins to read Shakespeare. Presently the booksinks to her lap; her eyes close; and she dozesinto a slumber.

An elderly womanservant comes in from

70 Heartbreak House

the hall with three unopened bottles of rumon a tray. She passes through and disappearsin the pantry without noticing the young lady.She places the bottles on the shelf and fills hertray with empty bottles. As she returns withthese, the young lady lets her book drop, awak-ening herself, and startling the womanservantso that she all but lets the tray fall.

THE WOMANSERVANT. God bless us![The young lady picks up the book and placesit on the table]. Sorry to wake you, miss, I’msure; but you are a stranger to me. Whatmight you be waiting here for now?

THE YOUNG LADY. Waiting for somebodyto show some signs of knowing that I havebeen invited here.

THE WOMANSERVANT. Oh, you’re in-vited, are you? And has nobody come? Dear!dear!

THE YOUNG LADY. A wild-looking oldgentleman came and looked in at the window;and I heard him calling out, “Nurse, there isa young and attractive female waiting in thepoop. Go and see what she wants.” Are youthe nurse?

THE WOMANSERVANT. Yes, miss: I’mNurse Guinness. That was old CaptainShotover, Mrs Hushabye’s father. I heard himroaring; but I thought it was for somethingelse. I suppose it was Mrs Hushabye that in-

ACT I 71

vited you, ducky?THE YOUNG LADY. I understood her to

do so. But really I think I’d better go.NURSE GUINNESS. Oh, don’t think of

such a thing, miss. If Mrs Hushabye has for-gotten all about it, it will be a pleasant sur-prise for her to see you, won’t it?

THE YOUNG LADY. It has been a very un-pleasant surprise to me to find that nobody ex-pects me.

NURSE GUINNESS. You’ll get used to it,miss: this house is full of surprises for themthat don’t know our ways.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [looking in fromthe hall suddenly: an ancient but still hardyman with an immense white beard, in a reeferjacket with a whistle hanging from his neck].Nurse, there is a hold-all and a handbag onthe front steps for everybody to fall over. Alsoa tennis racquet. Who the devil left themthere?

THE YOUNG LADY. They are mine, I’mafraid.

THE CAPTAIN [advancing to the drawing-table]. Nurse, who is this misguided and un-fortunate young lady?

NURSE GUINNESS. She says Miss Hessyinvited her, sir.

THE CAPTAIN. And had she no friend, noparents, to warn her against my daughter’s in-

72 Heartbreak House

vitations? This is a pretty sort of house, byheavens! A young and attractive lady is in-vited here. Her luggage is left on the stepsfor hours; and she herself is deposited in thepoop and abandoned, tired and starving. Thisis our hospitality. These are our manners. Noroom ready. No hot water. No welcoming host-ess. Our visitor is to sleep in the toolshed, andto wash in the duckpond.

NURSE GUINNESS. Now it’s all right,Captain: I’ll get the lady some tea; and herroom shall be ready before she has finishedit. [To the young lady]. Take off your hat,ducky; and make yourself at home [she goesto the door leading to the hall].

THE CAPTAIN [as she passes him].Ducky! Do you suppose, woman, that becausethis young lady has been insulted and ne-glected, you have the right to address her asyou address my wretched children, whom youhave brought up in ignorance of the common-est decencies of social intercourse?

NURSE GUINNESS. Never mind him,doty. [Quite unconcerned, she goes out into thehall on her way to the kitchen].

THE CAPTAIN. Madam, will you favor mewith your name? [He sits down in the bigwicker chair].

THE YOUNG LADY. My name is EllieDunn.

ACT I 73

THE CAPTAIN. Dunn! I had a boatswainwhose name was Dunn. He was originally apirate in China. He set up as a ship’s chan-dler with stores which I have every reason tobelieve he stole from me. No doubt he becamerich. Are you his daughter?

ELLIE [indignant]. No, certainly not. Iam proud to be able to say that though myfather has not been a successful man, nobodyhas ever had one word to say against him. Ithink my father is the best man I have everknown.

THE CAPTAIN. He must be greatlychanged. Has he attained the seventh degreeof concentration?

ELLIE. I don’t understand.THE CAPTAIN. But how could he, with

a daughter? I, madam, have two daughters.One of them is Hesione Hushabye, who in-vited you here. I keep this house: she upsetsit. I desire to attain the seventh degree of con-centration: she invites visitors and leaves meto entertain them. [Nurse Guinness returnswith the tea-tray, which she places on the teaktable]. I have a second daughter who is, thankGod, in a remote part of the Empire with hernumskull of a husband. As a child she thoughtthe figure-head of my ship, the Dauntless, themost beautiful thing on earth. He resembledit. He had the same expression: wooden yet

74 Heartbreak House

enterprising. She married him, and will neverset foot in this house again.

NURSE GUINNESS [carrying the table,with the tea-things on it, to Ellie’s side]. In-deed you never were more mistaken. She isin England this very moment. You have beentold three times this week that she is cominghome for a year for her health. And very gladyou should be to see your own daughter againafter all these years.

THE CAPTAIN. I am not glad. The natu-ral term of the affection of the human animalfor its offspring is six years. My daughter Ari-adne was born when I was forty-six. I am noweighty-eight. If she comes, I am not at home.If she wants anything, let her take it. If sheasks for me, let her be informed that I am ex-tremely old, and have totally forgotten her.

NURSE GUINNESS. That’s no talk to of-fer to a young lady. Here, ducky, have sometea; and don’t listen to him [she pours out acup of tea].

THE CAPTAIN [rising wrathfully]. Nowbefore high heaven they have given this in-nocent child Indian tea: the stuff they tantheir own leather insides with. [He seizes thecup and the tea-pot and empties both into theleathern bucket].

ELLIE [almost in tears]. Oh, please! I amso tired. I should have been glad of anything.

ACT I 75

NURSE GUINNESS. Oh, what a thing todo! The poor lamb is ready to drop.

THE CAPTAIN. You shall have some of mytea. Do not touch that fly-blown cake: nobodyeats it here except the dogs. [He disappearsinto the pantry].

NURSE GUINNESS. There’s a man foryou! They say he sold himself to the devilin Zanzibar before he was a captain; and theolder he grows the more I believe them.

A WOMAN’S VOICE [in the hall]. Is any-one at home? Hesione! Nurse! Papa! Do come,somebody; and take in my luggage.

Thumping heard, as of an umbrella, on thewainscot.

NURSE GUINNESS. My gracious! It’sMiss Addy, Lady Utterword, Mrs Hushabye’ssister: the one I told the captain about. [Call-ing]. Coming, Miss, coming.

She carries the table back to its place bythe door and is harrying out when she is inter-cepted by Lady Utterword, who bursts in muchflustered. Lady Utterword, a blonde, is veryhandsome, very well dressed, and so precipi-tate in speech and action that the first impres-sion (erroneous) is one of comic silliness.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, is that you,Nurse? How are you? You don’t look a dayolder. Is nobody at home? Where is Hesione?Doesn’t she expect me? Where are the ser-

76 Heartbreak House

vants? Whose luggage is that on the steps?Where’s papa? Is everybody asleep? [SeeingEllie]. Oh! I beg your pardon. I suppose youare one of my nieces. [Approaching her withoutstretched arms]. Come and kiss your aunt,darling.

ELLIE. I’m only a visitor. It is my luggageon the steps.

NURSE GUINNESS. I’ll go get you somefresh tea, ducky. [She takes up the tray].

ELLIE. But the old gentleman said hewould make some himself.

NURSE GUINNESS. Bless you! he’s for-gotten what he went for already. His mindwanders from one thing to another.

LADY UTTERWORD. Papa, I suppose?NURSE GUINNESS. Yes, Miss.LADY UTTERWORD [vehemently]. Don’t

be silly, Nurse. Don’t call me Miss.NURSE GUINNESS [placidly]. No, lovey

[she goes out with the tea-tray].LADY UTTERWORD [sitting down with a

flounce on the sofa]. I know what you mustfeel. Oh, this house, this house! I come backto it after twenty-three years; and it is just thesame: the luggage lying on the steps, the ser-vants spoilt and impossible, nobody at hometo receive anybody, no regular meals, nobodyever hungry because they are always gnaw-ing bread and butter or munching apples, and,

ACT I 77

what is worse, the same disorder in ideas, intalk, in feeling. When I was a child I wasused to it: I had never known anything bet-ter, though I was unhappy, and longed all thetime—oh, how I longed!—to be respectable, tobe a lady, to live as others did, not to haveto think of everything for myself. I marriedat nineteen to escape from it. My husband isSir Hastings Utterword, who has been gover-nor of all the crown colonies in succession. Ihave always been the mistress of GovernmentHouse. I have been so happy: I had forgottenthat people could live like this. I wanted to seemy father, my sister, my nephews and nieces(one ought to, you know), and I was lookingforward to it. And now the state of the house!the way I’m received! the casual impudenceof that woman Guinness, our old nurse! re-ally Hesione might at least have been here:some preparation might have been made forme. You must excuse my going on in this way;but I am really very much hurt and annoyedand disillusioned: and if I had realized it wasto be like this, I wouldn’t have come. I have agreat mind to go away without another word[she is on the point of weeping].

ELLIE [also very miserable]. Nobody hasbeen here to receive me either. I thought Iought to go away too. But how can I, LadyUtterword? My luggage is on the steps; and

78 Heartbreak House

the station fly has gone.The captain emerges from the pantry with

a tray of Chinese lacquer and a very fine tea-set on it. He rests it provisionally on the endof the table; snatches away the drawing-board,which he stands on the floor against table legs;and puts the tray in the space thus cleared. El-lie pours out a cup greedily.

THE CAPTAIN. Your tea, young lady.What! another lady! I must fetch another cup[he makes for the pantry].

LADY UTTERWORD [rising from the sofa,suffused with emotion]. Papa! Don’t you knowme? I’m your daughter.

THE CAPTAIN. Nonsense! my daughter’supstairs asleep. [He vanishes through the halfdoor].

Lady Utterword retires to the window toconceal her tears.

ELLIE [going to her with the cup]. Don’tbe so distressed. Have this cup of tea. He isvery old and very strange: he has been justlike that to me. I know how dreadful it mustbe: my own father is all the world to me. Oh,I’m sure he didn’t mean it.

The captain returns with another cup.THE CAPTAIN. Now we are complete. [He

places it on the tray].LADY UTTERWORD [hysterically]. Papa,

you can’t have forgotten me. I am Ariadne.

ACT I 79

I’m little Paddy Patkins. Won’t you kiss me?[She goes to him and throws her arms roundhis neck].

THE CAPTAIN [woodenly enduring herembrace]. How can you be Ariadne? You are amiddle-aged woman: well preserved, madam,but no longer young.

LADY UTTERWORD. But think of all theyears and years I have been away, Papa. Ihave had to grow old, like other people.

THE CAPTAIN [disengaging himself ].You should grow out of kissing strange men:they may be striving to attain the seventh de-gree of concentration.

LADY UTTERWORD. But I’m your daugh-ter. You haven’t seen me for years.

THE CAPTAIN. So much the worse! Whenour relatives are at home, we have to thinkof all their good points or it would be im-possible to endure them. But when they areaway, we console ourselves for their absenceby dwelling on their vices. That is how Ihave come to think my absent daughter Ari-adne a perfect fiend; so do not try to ingratiateyourself here by impersonating her [he walksfirmly away to the other side of the room].

LADY UTTERWORD. Ingratiating myselfindeed! [With dignity]. Very well, papa. [Shesits down at the drawing-table and pours outtea for herself ].

80 Heartbreak House

THE CAPTAIN. I am neglecting my socialduties. You remember Dunn? Billy Dunn?

LADY UTTERWORD. Do you mean thatvillainous sailor who robbed you?

THE CAPTAIN [introducing Ellie]. Hisdaughter. [He sits down on the sofa].

ELLIE [protesting]. No—Nurse Guinness returns with fresh tea.THE CAPTAIN. Take that hogwash away.

Do you hear?NURSE. You’ve actually remembered

about the tea! [To Ellie]. Oh, miss, hedidn’t forget you after all! You have made animpression.

THE CAPTAIN [gloomily]. Youth! beauty!novelty! They are badly wanted in this house.I am excessively old. Hesione is only moder-ately young. Her children are not youthful.

LADY UTTERWORD. How can children beexpected to be youthful in this house? Almostbefore we could speak we were filled with no-tions that might have been all very well forpagan philosophers of fifty, but were certainlyquite unfit for respectable people of any age.

NURSE. You were always for respectabil-ity, Miss Addy.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nurse, will youplease remember that I am Lady Utterword,and not Miss Addy, nor lovey, nor darling, nordoty? Do you hear?

ACT I 81

NURSE. Yes, ducky: all right. I’ll tell themall they must call you My Lady. [She takes hertray out with undisturbed placidity].

LADY UTTERWORD. What comfort? whatsense is there in having servants with nomanners?

ELLIE [rising and coming to the table toput down her empty cup]. Lady Utterword, doyou think Mrs Hushabye really expects me?

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, don’t ask me.You can see for yourself that I’ve just arrived;her only sister, after twenty-three years’ ab-sence! and it seems that I am not expected.

THE CAPTAIN. What does it matterwhether the young lady is expected or not?She is welcome. There are beds: there is food.I’ll find a room for her myself [he makes for thedoor].

ELLIE [following him to stop him]. Oh,please—[He goes out]. Lady Utterword, I don’tknow what to do. Your father persists inbelieving that my father is some sailor whorobbed him.

LADY UTTERWORD. You had better pre-tend not to notice it. My father is a very cleverman; but he always forgot things; and nowthat he is old, of course he is worse. And Imust warn you that it is sometimes very hardto feel quite sure that he really forgets.

Mrs Hushabye bursts into the room tempes-

82 Heartbreak House

tuously and embraces Ellie. She is a coupleof years older than Lady Utterword, and evenbetter looking. She has magnificent black hair,eyes like the fishpools of Heshbon, and a noblymodelled neck, short at the back and low be-tween her shoulders in front. Unlike her sistershe is uncorseted and dressed anyhow in a richrobe of black pile that shows off her white skinand statuesque contour.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie, my darling, mypettikins [kissing her], how long have youbeen here? I’ve been at home all the time: Iwas putting flowers and things in your room;and when I just sat down for a moment totry how comfortable the armchair was I wentoff to sleep. Papa woke me and told me youwere here. Fancy your finding no one, andbeing neglected and abandoned. [Kissing heragain]. My poor love! [She deposits Ellie onthe sofa. Meanwhile Ariadne has left the tableand come over to claim her share of attention].Oh! you’ve brought someone with you. Intro-duce me.

LADY UTTERWORD. Hesione, is it possi-ble that you don’t know me?

MRS HUSHABYE [conventionally]. Ofcourse I remember your face quite well.Where have we met?

LADY UTTERWORD. Didn’t Papa tell youI was here? Oh! this is really too much. [She

ACT I 83

throws herself sulkily into the big chair].MRS HUSHABYE. Papa!LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, Papa. Our

papa, you unfeeling wretch! [Rising angrily].I’ll go straight to a hotel.

MRS HUSHABYE [seizing her by theshoulders]. My goodness gracious goodness,you don’t mean to say that you’re Addy!

LADY UTTERWORD. I certainly amAddy; and I don’t think I can be so changedthat you would not have recognized me if youhad any real affection for me. And Papa didn’tthink me even worth mentioning!

MRS HUSHABYE. What a lark! Sit down[she pushes her back into the chair instead ofkissing her, and posts herself behind it]. Youdo look a swell. You’re much handsomer thanyou used to be. You’ve made the acquaintanceof Ellie, of course. She is going to marry aperfect hog of a millionaire for the sake of herfather, who is as poor as a church mouse; andyou must help me to stop her.

ELLIE. Oh, please, Hesione!MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, the

man’s coming here today with your father tobegin persecuting you; and everybody will seethe state of the case in ten minutes; so what’sthe use of making a secret of it?

ELLIE. He is not a hog, Hesione. You don’tknow how wonderfully good he was to my fa-

84 Heartbreak House

ther, and how deeply grateful I am to him.MRS HUSHABYE [to Lady Utterword].

Her father is a very remarkable man, Addy.His name is Mazzini Dunn. Mazzini wasa celebrity of some kind who knew Ellie’sgrandparents. They were both poets, like theBrownings; and when her father came intothe world Mazzini said, “Another soldier bornfor freedom!” So they christened him Mazz-ini; and he has been fighting for freedom inhis quiet way ever since. That’s why he is sopoor.

ELLIE. I am proud of his poverty.MRS HUSHABYE. Of course you are, pet-

tikins. Why not leave him in it, and marrysomeone you love?

LADY UTTERWORD [rising suddenly andexplosively]. Hesione, are you going to kiss meor are you not?

MRS HUSHABYE. What do you want to bekissed for?

LADY UTTERWORD. I don’t want to bekissed; but I do want you to behave properlyand decently. We are sisters. We have beenseparated for twenty-three years. You oughtto kiss me.

MRS HUSHABYE. To-morrow morning,dear, before you make up. I hate the smellof powder.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! you unfeeling—

ACT I 85

[she is interrupted by the return of the cap-tain].

THE CAPTAIN [to Ellie]. Your room isready. [Ellie rises]. The sheets were damp; butI have changed them [he makes for the gardendoor on the port side].

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! What about mysheets?

THE CAPTAIN [halting at the door]. Takemy advice: air them: or take them off andsleep in blankets. You shall sleep in Ariadne’sold room.

LADY UTTERWORD. Indeed I shall donothing of the sort. That little hole! I am en-titled to the best spare room.

THE CAPTAIN [continuing unmoved].She married a numskull. She told me shewould marry anyone to get away from home.

LADT UTTERWORD. You are pretendingnot to know me on purpose. I will leave thehouse.

Mazzini Dunn enters from the hall. He is alittle elderly man with bulging credulous eyesand earnest manners. He is dressed in a blueserge jacket suit with an unbuttoned mackin-tosh over it, and carries a soft black hat of cler-ical cut.

ELLIE. At last! Captain Shotover, here ismy father.

THE CAPTAIN. This! Nonsense! not a bit

86 Heartbreak House

like him [he goes away through the garden,shutting the door sharply behind him].

LADY UTTERWORD. I will not be ignoredand pretended to be somebody else. I will haveit out with Papa now, this instant. [To Mazz-ini]. Excuse me. [She follows the captain out,making a hasty bow to Mazzini, who returnsit].

MRS HUSHABYE [hospitably shakinghands]. How good of you to come, Mr Dunn!You don’t mind Papa, do you? He is as mad asa hatter, you know, but quite harmless and ex-tremely clever. You will have some delightfultalks with him.

MAZZINI. I hope so. [To Ellie]. So hereyou are, Ellie, dear. [He draws her arm affec-tionately through his]. I must thank you, MrsHushabye, for your kindness to my daughter.I’m afraid she would have had no holiday ifyou had not invited her.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not at all. Very nice ofher to come and attract young people to thehouse for us.

MAZZINI [smiling]. I’m afraid Ellie is notinterested in young men, Mrs Hushabye. Hertaste is on the graver, solider side.

MRS HUSHABYE [with a sudden ratherhard brightness in her manner]. Won’t youtake off your overcoat, Mr Dunn? You will finda cupboard for coats and hats and things in

ACT I 87

the corner of the hall.MAZZINI [hastily releasing Ellie]. Yes—

thank you—I had better— [he goes out].MRS HUSHABYE [emphatically]. The old

brute!ELLIE. Who?MRS HUSHABYE. Who! Him. He. It

[pointing after Mazzini]. “Graver, solidertastes,” indeed!

ELLIE [aghast]. You don’t mean that youwere speaking like that of my father!

MRS HUSHABYE. I was. You know I was.ELLIE [with dignity]. I will leave your

house at once. [She turns to the door].MRS HUSHABYE. If you attempt it, I’ll

tell your father why.ELLIE [turning again]. Oh! How can you

treat a visitor like this, Mrs Hushabye?MRS HUSHABYE. I thought you were go-

ing to call me Hesione.ELLIE. Certainly not now?MRS HUSHABYE. Very well: I’ll tell your

father.ELLIE [distressed]. Oh!MRS HUSHABYE. If you turn a hair—if

you take his part against me and against yourown heart for a moment, I’ll give that born sol-dier of freedom a piece of my mind that willstand him on his selfish old head for a week.

ELLIE. Hesione! My father selfish! How

88 Heartbreak House

little you know—She is interrupted by Mazzini, who returns,

excited and perspiring.MAZZINI. Ellie, Mangan has come: I

thought you’d like to know. Excuse me, MrsHushabye, the strange old gentleman—

MRS HUSHABYE. Papa. Quite so.MAZZINI. Oh, I beg your pardon, of

course: I was a little confused by his manner.He is making Mangan help him with some-thing in the garden; and he wants me too—

A powerful whistle is heard.THE CAPTAIN’S VOICE. Bosun ahoy! [the

whistle is repeated].MAZZINI [flustered]. Oh dear! I believe he

is whistling for me. [He hurries out].MRS HUSHABYE. Now my father is a

wonderful man if you like.ELLIE. Hesione, listen to me. You don’t

understand. My father and Mr Mangan wereboys together. Mr Ma—

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t care what theywere: we must sit down if you are going to be-gin as far back as that. [She snatches at Ellie’swaist, and makes her sit down on the sofa be-side her]. Now, pettikins, tell me all about MrMangan. They call him Boss Mangan, don’tthey? He is a Napoleon of industry and dis-gustingly rich, isn’t he? Why isn’t your fatherrich?

ACT I 89

ELLIE. My poor father should never havebeen in business. His parents were poets;and they gave him the noblest ideas; but theycould not afford to give him a profession.

MRS HUSHABYE. Fancy your grandpar-ents, with their eyes in fine frenzy rolling!And so your poor father had to go into busi-ness. Hasn’t he succeeded in it?

ELLIE. He always used to say he couldsucceed if he only had some capital. He foughthis way along, to keep a roof over our headsand bring us up well; but it was always astruggle: always the same difficulty of nothaving capital enough. I don’t know how todescribe it to you.

MRS HUSHABYE. Poor Ellie! I know.Pulling the devil by the tail.

ELLIE [hurt]. Oh, no. Not like that. It wasat least dignified.

MRS HUSHABYE. That made it all theharder, didn’t it? I shouldn’t have pulled thedevil by the tail with dignity. I should havepulled hard—[between her teeth] hard. Well?Go on.

ELLIE. At last it seemed that all our trou-bles were at an end. Mr Mangan did an ex-traordinarily noble thing out of pure friend-ship for my father and respect for his char-acter. He asked him how much capital hewanted, and gave it to him. I don’t mean that

90 Heartbreak House

he lent it to him, or that he invested it in hisbusiness. He just simply made him a presentof it. Wasn’t that splendid of him?

MRS HUSHABYE. On condition that youmarried him?

ELLIE. Oh, no, no, no! This was when Iwas a child. He had never even seen me: henever came to our house. It was absolutelydisinterested. Pure generosity.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! I beg the gen-tleman’s pardon. Well, what became of themoney?

ELLIE. We all got new clothes and movedinto another house. And I went to anotherschool for two years.

MRS HUSHABYE. Only two years?ELLIE. That was all: for at the end of two

years my father was utterly ruined.MRS HUSHABYE. How?ELLIE. I don’t know. I never could under-

stand. But it was dreadful. When we werepoor my father had never been in debt. Butwhen he launched out into business on a largescale, he had to incur liabilities. When thebusiness went into liquidation he owed moremoney than Mr Mangan had given him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Bit off more than hecould chew, I suppose.

ELLIE. I think you are a little unfeelingabout it.

ACT I 91

MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, youmustn’t mind my way of talking. I was quiteas sensitive and particular as you once; but Ihave picked up so much slang from the chil-dren that I am really hardly presentable. Isuppose your father had no head for business,and made a mess of it.

ELLIE. Oh, that just shows how entirelyyou are mistaken about him. The businessturned out a great success. It now pays forty-four per cent after deducting the excess profitstax.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then why aren’t yourolling in money?

ELLIE. I don’t know. It seems very unfairto me. You see, my father was made bankrupt.It nearly broke his heart, because he had per-suaded several of his friends to put money intothe business. He was sure it would succeed;and events proved that he was quite right.But they all lost their money. It was dread-ful. I don’t know what we should have donebut for Mr Mangan.

MRS HUSHABYE. What! Did the Bosscome to the rescue again, after all his moneybeing thrown away?

ELLIE. He did indeed, and never uttereda reproach to my father. He bought whatwas left of the business—the buildings andthe machinery and things—from the official

92 Heartbreak House

trustee for enough money to enable my fa-ther to pay six-and-eight-pence in the poundand get his discharge. Everyone pitied Papaso much, and saw so plainly that he was anhonorable man, that they let him off at six-and-eight-pence instead of ten shillings. ThenMr. Mangan started a company to take up thebusiness, and made my father a manager in itto save us from starvation; for I wasn’t earn-ing anything then.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Quite a romance. Andwhen did the Boss develop the tender passion?

ELLIE. Oh, that was years after, quitelately. He took the chair one night at a sortof people’s concert. I was singing there. Asan amateur, you know: half a guinea for ex-penses and three songs with three encores. Hewas so pleased with my singing that he askedmight he walk home with me. I never sawanyone so taken aback as he was when I tookhim home and introduced him to my father,his own manager. It was then that my fathertold me how nobly he had behaved. Of courseit was considered a great chance for me, as heis so rich. And—and—we drifted into a sort ofunderstanding—I suppose I should call it anengagement—[she is distressed and cannot goon].

MRS HUSHABYE [rising and marchingabout]. You may have drifted into it; but you

ACT I 93

will bounce out of it, my pettikins, if I am tohave anything to do with it.

ELLIE [hopelessly]. No: it’s no use. Iam bound in honor and gratitude. I will gothrough with it.

MRS HUSHABYE [behind the sofa, scold-ing down at her]. You know, of course, that it’snot honorable or grateful to marry a man youdon’t love. Do you love this Mangan man?

ELLIE. Yes. At least—MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t want to know

about “at least”: I want to know the worst.Girls of your age fall in love with all sorts ofimpossible people, especially old people.

ELLIE. I like Mr Mangan very much; andI shall always be—

MRS HUSHABYE [impatiently completingthe sentence and prancing away intolerantly tostarboard]. —grateful to him for his kindnessto dear father. I know. Anybody else?

ELLIE. What do you mean?MRS HUSHABYE. Anybody else? Are you

in love with anybody else?ELLIE. Of course not.MRS HUSHABYE. Humph! [The book on

the drawing-table catches her eye. She picksit up, and evidently finds the title very unex-pected. She looks at Ellie, and asks, quaintly]Quite sure you’re not in love with an actor?

ELLIE. No, no. Why? What put such a

94 Heartbreak House

thing into your head?MRS HUSHABYE. This is yours, isn’t it?

Why else should you be reading Othello?ELLIE. My father taught me to love

Shakespeare.MRS HUSHAYE [flinging the book down

on the table]. Really! your father does seem tobe about the limit.

ELLIE [naively]. Do you never readShakespeare, Hesione? That seems to me soextraordinary. I like Othello.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you, indeed? Hewas jealous, wasn’t he?

ELLIE. Oh, not that. I think all the partabout jealousy is horrible. But don’t you thinkit must have been a wonderful experience forDesdemona, brought up so quietly at home, tomeet a man who had been out in the world do-ing all sorts of brave things and having terri-ble adventures, and yet finding something inher that made him love to sit and talk withher and tell her about them?

MRS HUSHABYE. That’s your idea of ro-mance, is it?

ELLIE. Not romance, exactly. It might re-ally happen.

Ellie’s eyes show that she is not arguing,but in a daydream. Mrs Hushabye, watchingher inquisitively, goes deliberately back to thesofa and resumes her seat beside her.

ACT I 95

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie darling, have younoticed that some of those stories that Othellotold Desdemona couldn’t have happened—?

ELLIE. Oh, no. Shakespeare thought theycould have happened.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Desdemonathought they could have happened. But theydidn’t.

ELLIE. Why do you look so enigmaticabout it? You are such a sphinx: I never knowwhat you mean.

MRS HUSHABYE. Desdemona wouldhave found him out if she had lived, you know.I wonder was that why he strangled her!

ELLIE. Othello was not telling lies.MRS HUSHABYE. How do you know?ELLIE. Shakespeare would have said if he

was. Hesione, there are men who have donewonderful things: men like Othello, only, ofcourse, white, and very handsome, and—

MRS HUSHABYE. Ah! Now we’re comingto it. Tell me all about him. I knew there mustbe somebody, or you’d never have been so mis-erable about Mangan: you’d have thought itquite a lark to marry him.

ELLIE [blushing vividly]. Hesione, youare dreadful. But I don’t want to make a se-cret of it, though of course I don’t tell every-body. Besides, I don’t know him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Don’t know him! What

96 Heartbreak House

does that mean?ELLIE. Well, of course I know him to speak

to.MRS HUSHABYE. But you want to know

him ever so much more intimately, eh?ELLIE. No, no: I know him quite—almost

intimately.MRS HUSHABYE. You don’t know him;

and you know him almost intimately. How lu-cid!

ELLIE. I mean that he does not call on us.I—I got into conversation with him by chanceat a concert.

MRS HUSHABYE. You seem to haverather a gay time at your concerts, Ellie.

ELLIE. Not at all: we talk to everyonein the greenroom waiting for our turns. Ithought he was one of the artists: he lookedso splendid. But he was only one of the com-mittee. I happened to tell him that I was copy-ing a picture at the National Gallery. I makea little money that way. I can’t paint much;but as it’s always the same picture I can do itpretty quickly and get two or three pounds forit. It happened that he came to the NationalGallery one day.

MRS HUSHABYE. One students’ day.Paid sixpence to stumble about through acrowd of easels, when he might have come innext day for nothing and found the floor clear!

ACT I 97

Quite by accident?ELLIE [triumphantly]. No. On purpose.

He liked talking to me. He knows lots ofthe most splendid people. Fashionable womenwho are all in love with him. But he ran awayfrom them to see me at the National Galleryand persuade me to come with him for a driveround Richmond Park in a taxi.

MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, you havebeen going it. It’s wonderful what you goodgirls can do without anyone saying a word.

ELLIE. I am not in society, Hesione. IfI didn’t make acquaintances in that way Ishouldn’t have any at all.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, no harm if youknow how to take care of yourself. May I askhis name?

ELLIE [slowly and musically]. MarcusDarnley.

MRS HUSHABYE [echoing the music].Marcus Darnley! What a splendid name!

ELLIE. Oh, I’m so glad you think so. Ithink so too; but I was afraid it was only asilly fancy of my own.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Is he one of theAberdeen Darnleys?

ELLIE. Nobody knows. Just fancy! He wasfound in an antique chest—

MRS HUSHABYE. A what?ELLIE. An antique chest, one summer

98 Heartbreak House

morning in a rose garden, after a night of themost terrible thunderstorm.

MRS HUSHABYE. What on earth was hedoing in the chest? Did he get into it becausehe was afraid of the lightning?

ELLIE. Oh, no, no: he was a baby. Thename Marcus Darnley was embroidered onhis baby clothes. And five hundred pounds ingold.

MRS HUSHABYE [Looking hard at her].Ellie!

ELLIE. The garden of the Viscount—MRS HUSHABYE. —de Rougemont?ELLIE [innocently]. No: de Larochejaque-

lin. A French family. A vicomte. His life hasbeen one long romance. A tiger—

MRS HUSHABYE. Slain by his own hand?ELLIE. Oh, no: nothing vulgar like that.

He saved the life of the tiger from a hunt-ing party: one of King Edward’s hunting par-ties in India. The King was furious: that waswhy he never had his military services prop-erly recognized. But he doesn’t care. He is aSocialist and despises rank, and has been inthree revolutions fighting on the barricades.

MRS HUSHABYE. How can you sit theretelling me such lies? You, Ellie, of all people!And I thought you were a perfectly simple,straightforward, good girl.

ELLIE [rising, dignified but very angry].

ACT I 99

Do you mean you don’t believe me?MRS HUSHABYE. Of course I don’t be-

lieve you. You’re inventing every word of it.Do you take me for a fool?

Ellie stares at her. Her candor is so obviousthat Mrs Hushabye is puzzled.

ELLIE. Goodbye, Hesione. I’m very sorry.I see now that it sounds very improbable as Itell it. But I can’t stay if you think that wayabout me.

MRS HUSHABYE [catching her dress].You shan’t go. I couldn’t be so mistaken: Iknow too well what liars are like. Somebodyhas really told you all this.

ELLIE [flushing]. Hesione, don’t say thatyou don’t believe him. I couldn’t bear that.

MRS HUSHABYE [soothing her]. Ofcourse I believe him, dearest. But you shouldhave broken it to me by degrees. [Drawing herback to her seat]. Now tell me all about him.Are you in love with him?

ELLIE. Oh, no. I’m not so foolish. I don’tfall in love with people. I’m not so silly as youthink.

MRS HUSHABYE. I see. Only somethingto think about—to give some interest andpleasure to life.

ELLIE. Just so. That’s all, really.MRS HUSHABYE. It makes the hours go

fast, doesn’t it? No tedious waiting to go to

100 Heartbreak House

sleep at nights and wondering whether youwill have a bad night. How delightful it makeswaking up in the morning! How much bet-ter than the happiest dream! All life transfig-ured! No more wishing one had an interestingbook to read, because life is so much happierthan any book! No desire but to be alone andnot to have to talk to anyone: to be alone andjust think about it.

ELLIE [embracing her]. Hesione, you area witch. How do you know? Oh, you are themost sympathetic woman in the world!

MRS HUSHABYE [caressing her]. Pet-tikins, my pettikins, how I envy you! and howI pity you!

ELLIE. Pity me! Oh, why?A very handsome man of fifty, with mous-

quetaire moustaches, wearing a rather dandi-fied curly brimmed hat, and carrying an elab-orate walking-stick, comes into the room fromthe hall, and stops short at sight of the womenon the sofa.

ELLIE [seeing him and rising in glad sur-prise]. Oh! Hesione: this is Mr Marcus Darn-ley.

MRS HUSHABYE [rising]. What a lark!He is my husband.

ELLIE. But now—[she stops suddenly:then turns pale and sways].

MRS HUSHABYE [catching her and sit-

ACT I 101

ting down with her on the sofa]. Steady, mypettikins.

THE MAN [with a mixture of confusionand effrontery, depositing his hat and stick onthe teak table]. My real name, Miss Dunn,is Hector Hushabye. I leave you to judgewhether that is a name any sensitive manwould care to confess to. I never use it whenI can possibly help it. I have been away fornearly a month; and I had no idea you knewmy wife, or that you were coming here. I amnone the less delighted to find you in our littlehouse.

ELLIE [in great distress]. I don’t knowwhat to do. Please, may I speak to papa? Doleave me. I can’t bear it.

MRS HUSHABYE. Be off, Hector.HECTOR. I—MRS HUSHABYE. Quick, quick. Get out.HECTOR. If you think it better—[he goes

out, taking his hat with him but leaving thestick on the table].

MRS HUSHABYE [laying Ellie down atthe end of the sofa]. Now, pettikins, he is gone.There’s nobody but me. You can let yourselfgo. Don’t try to control yourself. Have a goodcry.

ELLIE [raising her head]. Damn!MRS HUSHABYE. Splendid! Oh, what a

relief! I thought you were going to be broken-

102 Heartbreak House

hearted. Never mind me. Damn him again.ELLIE. I am not damning him. I am

damning myself for being such a fool. [Rising].How could I let myself be taken in so? [She be-gins prowling to and fro, her bloom gone, look-ing curiously older and harder].

MRS HUSHABYE [cheerfully]. Why not,pettikins? Very few young women can resistHector. I couldn’t when I was your age. He isreally rather splendid, you know.

ELLIE [turning on her]. Splendid! Yes,splendid looking, of course. But how can youlove a liar?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t know. But youcan, fortunately. Otherwise there wouldn’t bemuch love in the world.

ELLIE. But to lie like that! To be aboaster! a coward!

MRS HUSHABYE [rising in alarm]. Pet-tikins, none of that, if you please. If you hintthe slightest doubt of Hector’s courage, he willgo straight off and do the most horribly dan-gerous things to convince himself that he isn’ta coward. He has a dreadful trick of gettingout of one third-floor window and coming in atanother, just to test his nerve. He has a wholedrawerful of Albert Medals for saving people’slives.

ELLIE. He never told me that.MRS HUSHABYE. He never boasts of any-

ACT I 103

thing he really did: he can’t bear it; and itmakes him shy if anyone else does. All hisstories are made-up stories.

ELLIE [coming to her]. Do you mean thathe is really brave, and really has adventures,and yet tells lies about things that he neverdid and that never happened?

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes, pettikins, I do.People don’t have their virtues and vices insets: they have them anyhow: all mixed.

ELLIE [staring at her thoughtfully].There’s something odd about this house,Hesione, and even about you. I don’t knowwhy I’m talking to you so calmly. I have ahorrible fear that my heart is broken, butthat heartbreak is not like what I thought itmust be.

MRS HUSHABYE [fondling her]. It’s onlylife educating you, pettikins. How do you feelabout Boss Mangan now?

ELLIE [disengaging herself with an ex-pression of distaste]. Oh, how can you remindme of him, Hesione?

MRS HUSHABYE. Sorry, dear. I think Ihear Hector coming back. You don’t mind now,do you, dear?

ELLIE. Not in the least. I am quite cured.Mazzini Dunn and Hector come in from the

hall.HECTOR [as he opens the door and allows

104 Heartbreak House

Mazzini to pass in]. One second more, and shewould have been a dead woman!

MAZZINI. Dear! dear! what an escape!Ellie, my love, Mr Hushabye has just beentelling me the most extraordinary—

ELLIE. Yes, I’ve heard it [she crosses to theother side of the room].

HECTOR [following her]. Not this one: I’lltell it to you after dinner. I think you’ll likeit. The truth is I made it up for you, and waslooking forward to the pleasure of telling it toyou. But in a moment of impatience at be-ing turned out of the room, I threw it away onyour father.

ELLIE [turning at bay with her back to thecarpenter’s bench, scornfully self-possessed]. Itwas not thrown away. He believes it. I shouldnot have believed it.

MAZZINI [benevolently]. Ellie is verynaughty, Mr Hushabye. Of course she doesnot really think that. [He goes to the book-shelves, and inspects the titles of the volumes].

Boss Mangan comes in from the hall, fol-lowed by the captain. Mangan, carefully frock-coated as for church or for a Directors’ meet-ing, is about fifty-five, with a careworn, mis-trustful expression, standing a little on an en-tirely imaginary dignity, with a dull complex-ion, straight, lustreless hair, and features soentirely commonplace that it is impossible to

ACT I 105

describe them.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mrs Hushabye,

introducing the newcomer]. Says his name isMangan. Not able-bodied.

MRS HUSHABYE [graciously]. How doyou do, Mr Mangan?

MANGAN [shaking hands]. Very pleased.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dunn’s lost his

muscle, but recovered his nerve. Men seldomdo after three attacks of delirium tremens [hegoes into the pantry].

MRS HUSHABYE. I congratulate you, MrDunn.

MAZZINI [dazed]. I am a lifelong teeto-taler.

MRS HUSHABYE. You will find it far lesstrouble to let papa have his own way than tryto explain.

MAZZINI. But three attacks of deliriumtremens, really!

MRS HUSHABYE [to Mangan]. Do youknow my husband, Mr Mangan [she indicatesHector].

MANGAN [going to Hector, who meets himwith outstretched hand]. Very pleased. [Turn-ing to Ellie]. I hope, Miss Ellie, you have notfound the journey down too fatiguing. [Theyshake hands].

MRS HUSHABYE. Hector, show Mr Dunnhis room.

106 Heartbreak House

HECTOR. Certainly. Come along, MrDunn. [He takes Mazzini out].

ELLIE. You haven’t shown me my roomyet, Hesione.

MRS HUSHABYE. How stupid of me!Come along. Make yourself quite at home, MrMangan. Papa will entertain you. [She callsto the captain in the pantry]. Papa, come andexplain the house to Mr Mangan.

She goes out with Ellie. The captain comesfrom the pantry.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You’re going tomarry Dunn’s daughter. Don’t. You’re too old.

MANGAN [staggered]. Well! That’s fairlyblunt, Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s true.MANGAN. She doesn’t think so.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. She does.MANGAN. Older men than I have—CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [finishing the sen-

tence for him].—made fools of themselves.That, also, is true.

MANGAN [asserting himself ]. I don’t seethat this is any business of yours.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It is everybody’sbusiness. The stars in their courses areshaken when such things happen.

MANGAN. I’m going to marry her all thesame.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. How do you

ACT I 107

know?MANGAN [playing the strong man]. I in-

tend to. I mean to. See? I never made up mymind to do a thing yet that I didn’t bring it off.That’s the sort of man I am; and there will bea better understanding between us when youmake up your mind to that, Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You frequent pic-ture palaces.

MANGAN. Perhaps I do. Who told you?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Talk like a man,

not like a movie. You mean that you make ahundred thousand a year.

MANGAN. I don’t boast. But when I meeta man that makes a hundred thousand a year,I take off my hat to that man, and stretch outmy hand to him and call him brother.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Then you alsomake a hundred thousand a year, hey?

MANGAN. No. I can’t say that. Fifty thou-sand, perhaps.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. His half brotheronly [he turns away from Mangan with hisusual abruptness, and collects the empty tea-cups on the Chinese tray].

MANGAN [irritated]. See here, CaptainShotover. I don’t quite understand my posi-tion here. I came here on your daughter’s in-vitation. Am I in her house or in yours?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You are beneath

108 Heartbreak House

the dome of heaven, in the house of God. Whatis true within these walls is true outside them.Go out on the seas; climb the mountains; wan-der through the valleys. She is still too young.

MANGAN [weakening]. But I’m very littleover fifty.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You are still lessunder sixty. Boss Mangan, you will not marrythe pirate’s child [he carries the tray away intothe pantry].

MANGAN [following him to the half door].What pirate’s child? What are you talkingabout?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [in the pantry]. El-lie Dunn. You will not marry her.

MANGAN. Who will stop me?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [emerging]. My

daughter [he makes for the door leading to thehall].

MANGAN [following him]. Mrs Hushabye!Do you mean to say she brought me down hereto break it off?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping andturning on him]. I know nothing more thanI have seen in her eye. She will break itoff. Take my advice: marry a West Indiannegress: they make excellent wives. I wasmarried to one myself for two years.

MANGAN. Well, I am damned!CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I thought so. I

ACT I 109

was, too, for many years. The negress re-deemed me.

MANGAN [feebly]. This is queer. I oughtto walk out of this house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why?MANGAN. Well, many men would be of-

fended by your style of talking.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Nonsense! It’s the

other sort of talking that makes quarrels. No-body ever quarrels with me.

A gentleman, whose first-rate tailoring andfrictionless manners proclaim the wellbredWest Ender, comes in from the hall. He has anengaging air of being young and unmarried,but on close inspection is found to be at leastover forty.

THE GENTLEMAN. Excuse my intrudingin this fashion, but there is no knocker on thedoor and the bell does not seem to ring.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why should therebe a knocker? Why should the bell ring? Thedoor is open.

THE GENTLEMAN. Precisely. So I ven-tured to come in.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Quite right. I willsee about a room for you [he makes for thedoor].

THE GENTLEMAN [stopping him]. ButI’m afraid you don’t know who I am.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Do you suppose

110 Heartbreak House

that at my age I make distinctions betweenone fellow creature and another? [He goes out.Mangan and the newcomer stare at one an-other].

MANGAN. Strange character, CaptainShotover, sir.

THE GENTLEMAN. Very.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [shouting outside].

Hesione, another person has arrived andwants a room. Man about town, well dressed,fifty.

THE GENTLEMAN. Fancy Hesione’s feel-ings! May I ask are you a member of the fam-ily?

MANGAN. No.THE GENTLEMAN. I am. At least a con-

nection.Mrs Hushabye comes back.MRS HUSHABYE. How do you do? How

good of you to come!THE GENTLEMAN. I am very glad indeed

to make your acquaintance, Hesione. [Insteadof taking her hand he kisses her. At the samemoment the captain appears in the doorway].You will excuse my kissing your daughter,Captain, when I tell you that—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Stuff! Everyonekisses my daughter. Kiss her as much as youlike [he makes for the pantry].

THE GENTLEMAN. Thank you. One mo-

ACT I 111

ment, Captain. [The captain halts and turns.The gentleman goes to him affably]. Do youhappen to remember but probably you don’t,as it occurred many years ago—that youryounger daughter married a numskull?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes. She saidshe’d marry anybody to get away from thishouse. I should not have recognized you: yourhead is no longer like a walnut. Your aspectis softened. You have been boiled in breadand milk for years and years, like other mar-ried men. Poor devil! [He disappears into thepantry].

MRS HUSHABYE [going past Mangan tothe gentleman and scrutinizing him]. I don’tbelieve you are Hastings Utterword.

THE GENTLEMAN. I am not.MRS HUSHABYE. Then what business

had you to kiss me?THE GENTLEMAN. I thought I would like

to. The fact is, I am Randall Utterword, theunworthy younger brother of Hastings. I wasabroad diplomatizing when he was married.

LADY UTTERWORD [dashing in]. Hes-ione, where is the key of the wardrobe in myroom? My diamonds are in my dressing-bag:I must lock it up—[recognizing the strangerwith a shock] Randall, how dare you? [Shemarches at him past Mrs Hushabye, who re-treats and joins Mangan near the sofa].

112 Heartbreak House

RANDALL. How dare I what? I am not do-ing anything.

LADY UTTERWORD. Who told you I washere?

RANDALL. Hastings. You had just leftwhen I called on you at Claridge’s; so I fol-lowed you down here. You are looking ex-tremely well.

LADY UTTERWORD. Don’t presume totell me so.

MRS HUSHABYE. What is wrong with MrRandall, Addy?

LADY UTTERWORD [recollecting her-self ]. Oh, nothing. But he has no right tocome bothering you and papa without beinginvited [she goes to the window-seat and sitsdown, turning away from them ill-humoredlyand looking into the garden, where Hector andEllie are now seen strolling together].

MRS HUSHABYE. I think you have notmet Mr Mangan, Addy.

LADY UTTERWORD [turning her headand nodding coldly to Mangan]. I beg yourpardon. Randall, you have flustered me so: Imake a perfect fool of myself.

MRS HUSHABYE. Lady Utterword. Mysister. My younger sister.

MANGAN [bowing]. Pleased to meet you,Lady Utterword.

LADY UTTERWORD [with marked inter-

ACT I 113

est]. Who is that gentleman walking in thegarden with Miss Dunn?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t know. She quar-relled mortally with my husband only tenminutes ago; and I didn’t know anyone elsehad come. It must be a visitor. [She goes tothe window to look]. Oh, it is Hector. They’vemade it up.

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband! Thathandsome man?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, why shouldn’t myhusband be a handsome man?

RANDALL [joining them at the window].One’s husband never is, Ariadne [he sits byLady Utterword, on her right].

MRS HUSHABYE. One’s sister’s husbandalways is, Mr Randall.

LADY UTTERWORD. Don’t be vulgar,Randall. And you, Hesione, are just as bad.

Ellie and Hector come in from the gardenby the starboard door. Randall rises. Ellieretires into the corner near the pantry. Hec-tor comes forward; and Lady Utterword riseslooking her very best.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Hector, this is Addy.HECTOR [apparently surprised]. Not this

lady.LADY UTTERWORD [smiling]. Why not?HECTOR [looking at her with a piercing

glance of deep but respectful admiration, his

114 Heartbreak House

moustache bristling]. I thought— [pullinghimself together]. I beg your pardon, Lady Ut-terword. I am extremely glad to welcome youat last under our roof [he offers his hand withgrave courtesy].

MRS HUSHABYE. She wants to be kissed,Hector.

LADY UTTERWORD. Hesione! [But shestill smiles].

MRS HUSHABYE. Call her Addy; and kissher like a good brother-in-law; and have donewith it. [She leaves them to themselves].

HECTOR. Behave yourself, Hesione. LadyUtterword is entitled not only to hospitalitybut to civilization.

LADY UTTERWORD [gratefully]. Thankyou, Hector. [They shake hands cordially].

Mazzini Dunn is seen crossing the gardenfrom starboard to port.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [coming from thepantry and addressing Ellie]. Your father haswashed himself.

ELLIE [quite self-possessed]. He oftendoes, Captain Shotover.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A strange conver-sion! I saw him through the pantry window.

Mazzini Dunn enters through the port win-dow door, newly washed and brushed, andstops, smiling benevolently, between Manganand Mrs Hushabye.

ACT I 115

MRS HUSHABYE [introducing]. MrMazzini Dunn, Lady Ut—oh, I forgot: you’vemet. [Indicating Ellie] Miss Dunn.

MAZZINI [walking across the room to takeEllie’s hand, and beaming at his own naughtyirony]. I have met Miss Dunn also. She ismy daughter. [He draws her arm through hiscaressingly].

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course: how stupid!Mr Utterword, my sister’s—er—

RANDALL [shaking hands agreeably].Her brother-in-law, Mr Dunn. How do you do?

MRS HUSHABYE. This is my husband.HECTOR. We have met, dear. Don’t intro-

duce us any more. [He moves away to the bigchair, and adds] Won’t you sit down, Lady Ut-terword? [She does so very graciously].

MRS HUSHABYE. Sorry. I hate it: it’s likemaking people show their tickets.

MAZZINI [sententiously]. How little ittells us, after all! The great question is, notwho we are, but what we are.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ha! What areyou?

MAZZINI [taken aback]. What am I?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A thief, a pirate,

and a murderer.MAZZINI. I assure you you are mistaken.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. An adventurous

life; but what does it end in? Respectability. A

116 Heartbreak House

ladylike daughter. The language and appear-ance of a city missionary. Let it be a warningto all of you [he goes out through the garden].

DUNN. I hope nobody here believes that Iam a thief, a pirate, or a murderer. Mrs Hush-abye, will you excuse me a moment? I mustreally go and explain. [He follows the captain].

MRS HUSHABYE [as he goes]. It’s no use.You’d really better— [but Dunn has vanished].We had better all go out and look for some tea.We never have regular tea; but you can alwaysget some when you want: the servants keep itstewing all day. The kitchen veranda is thebest place to ask. May I show you? [She goesto the starboard door].

RANDALL [going with her]. Thank you,I don’t think I’ll take any tea this afternoon.But if you will show me the garden—

MRS HUSHABYE. There’s nothing to seein the garden except papa’s observatory, anda gravel pit with a cave where he keeps dy-namite and things of that sort. However, it’spleasanter out of doors; so come along.

RANDALL. Dynamite! Isn’t that ratherrisky?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we don’t sit in thegravel pit when there’s a thunderstorm.

LADY UTTERWORD. That’s somethingnew. What is the dynamite for?

HECTOR. To blow up the human race if it

ACT I 117

goes too far. He is trying to discover a psychicray that will explode all the explosive at thewell of a Mahatma.

ELLIE. The captain’s tea is delicious, MrUtterword.

MRS HUSHABYE [stopping in the door-way]. Do you mean to say that you’ve hadsome of my father’s tea? that you got roundhim before you were ten minutes in the house?

ELLIE. I did.MRS HUSHABYE. You little devil! [She

goes out with Randall].MANGAN. Won’t you come, Miss Ellie?ELLIE. I’m too tired. I’ll take a book up

to my room and rest a little. [She goes to thebookshelf ].

MANGAN. Right. You can’t do better. ButI’m disappointed. [He follows Randall andMrs Hushabye].

Ellie, Hector, and Lady Utterword are left.Hector is close to Lady Utterword. They lookat Ellie, waiting for her to go.

ELLIE [looking at the title of a book]. Doyou like stories of adventure, Lady Utter-word?

LADY UTTERWORD [patronizingly]. Ofcourse, dear.

ELLIE. Then I’ll leave you to Mr Husha-bye. [She goes out through the hall].

HECTOR. That girl is mad about tales of

118 Heartbreak House

adventure. The lies I have to tell her!LADY UTTERWORD [not interested in El-

lie]. When you saw me what did you meanby saying that you thought, and then stoppingshort? What did you think?

HECTOR [folding his arms and lookingdown at her magnetically]. May I tell you?

LADY UTTERWORD. Of course.HECTOR. It will not sound very civil. I

was on the point of saying, “I thought youwere a plain woman.”

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, for shame, Hec-tor! What right had you to notice whether Iam plain or not?

HECTOR. Listen to me, Ariadne. Until to-day I have seen only photographs of you; andno photograph can give the strange fascina-tion of the daughters of that supernatural oldman. There is some damnable quality in themthat destroys men’s moral sense, and carriesthem beyond honor and dishonor. You knowthat, don’t you?

LADY UTTERWORD. Perhaps I do, Hec-tor. But let me warn you once for all that I ama rigidly conventional woman. You may thinkbecause I’m a Shotover that I’m a Bohemian,because we are all so horribly Bohemian. ButI’m not. I hate and loathe Bohemianism. Nochild brought up in a strict Puritan householdever suffered from Puritanism as I suffered

ACT I 119

from our Bohemianism.HECTOR. Our children are like that. They

spend their holidays in the houses of their re-spectable schoolfellows.

LADY UTTERWORD. I shall invite themfor Christmas.

HECTOR. Their absence leaves us bothwithout our natural chaperones.

LADY UTTERWORD. Children are cer-tainly very inconvenient sometimes. But in-telligent people can always manage, unlessthey are Bohemians.

HECTOR. You are no Bohemian; but youare no Puritan either: your attraction is aliveand powerful. What sort of woman do youcount yourself?

LADY UTTERWORD. I am a woman of theworld, Hector; and I can assure you that ifyou will only take the trouble always to dothe perfectly correct thing, and to say the per-fectly correct thing, you can do just what youlike. An ill-conducted, careless woman getssimply no chance. An ill-conducted, carelessman is never allowed within arm’s length ofany woman worth knowing.

HECTOR. I see. You are neither a Bo-hemian woman nor a Puritan woman. You area dangerous woman.

LADY UTTERWORD. On the contrary, Iam a safe woman.

120 Heartbreak House

HECTOR. You are a most accursedly at-tractive woman. Mind, I am not making loveto you. I do not like being attracted. But youhad better know how I feel if you are going tostay here.

LADY UTTERWORD. You are an exceed-ingly clever lady-killer, Hector. And terriblyhandsome. I am quite a good player, myself,at that game. Is it quite understood that weare only playing?

HECTOR. Quite. I am deliberately playingthe fool, out of sheer worthlessness.

LADY UTTERWORD [rising brightly].Well, you are my brother-in-law, Hesioneasked you to kiss me. [He seizes her in hisarms and kisses her strenuously]. Oh! thatwas a little more than play, brother-in-law.[She pushes him suddenly away]. You shallnot do that again.

HECTOR. In effect, you got your clawsdeeper into me than I intended.

MRS HUBHABYE [coming in from thegarden]. Don’t let me disturb you; I only wanta cap to put on daddiest. The sun is setting;and he’ll catch cold [she makes for the doorleading to the hall].

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband isquite charming, darling. He has actually con-descended to kiss me at last. I shall go intothe garden: it’s cooler now [she goes out by the

ACT I 121

port door].MRS HUSHABYE. Take care, dear child.

I don’t believe any man can kiss Addy with-out falling in love with her. [She goes into thehall].

HECTOR [striking himself on the chest].Fool! Goat!

Mrs Hushabye comes back with the cap-tain’s cap.

HECTOR. Your sister is an extremely en-terprising old girl. Where’s Miss Dunn!

MRS HUSHABYE. Mangan says she hasgone up to her room for a nap. Addy won’t letyou talk to Ellie: she has marked you for herown.

HECTOR. She has the diabolical familyfascination. I began making love to her auto-matically. What am I to do? I can’t fall in love;and I can’t hurt a woman’s feelings by tellingher so when she falls in love with me. Andas women are always falling in love with mymoustache I get landed in all sorts of tediousand terrifying flirtations in which I’m not a bitin earnest.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, neither is Addy.She has never been in love in her life, thoughshe has always been trying to fall in head overears. She is worse than you, because you hadone real go at least, with me.

HECTOR. That was a confounded mad-

122 Heartbreak House

ness. I can’t believe that such an amazing ex-perience is common. It has left its mark onme. I believe that is why I have never beenable to repeat it.

MRS HUSHABYE [laughing and caress-ing his arm]. We were frightfully in lovewith one another, Hector. It was such an en-chanting dream that I have never been able togrudge it to you or anyone else since. I haveinvited all sorts of pretty women to the houseon the chance of giving you another turn. Butit has never come off.

HECTOR. I don’t know that I want it tocome off. It was damned dangerous. You fas-cinated me; but I loved you; so it was heaven.This sister of yours fascinates me; but I hateher; so it is hell. I shall kill her if she persists.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Nothing will kill Addy;she is as strong as a horse. [Releasing him].Now I am going off to fascinate somebody.

HECTOR. The Foreign Office toff? Ran-dall?

MRS HUSHABYE. Goodness gracious, no!Why should I fascinate him?

HECTOR. I presume you don’t mean thebloated capitalist, Mangan?

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! I think he hadbetter be fascinated by me than by Ellie. [Sheis going into the garden when the captaincomes in from it with some sticks in his hand].

ACT I 123

What have you got there, daddiest?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dynamite.MRS HUSHABYE. You’ve been to the

gravel pit. Don’t drop it about the house,there’s a dear. [She goes into the garden,where the evening light is now very red].

HECTOR. Listen, O sage. How long dareyou concentrate on a feeling without riskinghaving it fixed in your consciousness all therest of your life?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ninety minutes.An hour and a half. [He goes into the pantry].

Hector, left alone, contracts his brows, andfalls into a day-dream. He does not move forsome time. Then he folds his arms. Then,throwing his hands behind him, and grippingone with the other, he strides tragically onceto and fro. Suddenly he snatches his walkingstick from the teak table, and draws it; for it isa swordstick. He fights a desperate duel withan imaginary antagonist, and after many vi-cissitudes runs him through the body up tothe hilt. He sheathes his sword and throwsit on the sofa, falling into another reverie ashe does so. He looks straight into the eyes ofan imaginary woman; seizes her by the arms;and says in a deep and thrilling tone, “Do youlove me!” The captain comes out of the pantryat this moment; and Hector, caught with hisarms stretched out and his fists clenched, has

124 Heartbreak House

to account for his attitude by going through aseries of gymnastic exercises.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That sort ofstrength is no good. You will never be asstrong as a gorilla.

HECTOR. What is the dynamite for?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. To kill fellows like

Mangan.HECTOR. No use. They will always be

able to buy more dynamite than you.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I will make a dy-

namite that he cannot explode.HECTOR. And that you can, eh?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes: when I have

attained the seventh degree of concentration.HECTOR. What’s the use of that? You

never do attain it.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What then is to be

done? Are we to be kept forever in the mud bythese hogs to whom the universe is nothingbut a machine for greasing their bristles andfilling their snouts?

HECTOR. Are Mangan’s bristles worsethan Randall’s lovelocks?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER,. We must winpowers of life and death over them both. Irefuse to die until I have invented the means.

HECTOR. Who are we that we shouldjudge them?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What are they

ACT I 125

that they should judge us? Yet they do, un-hesitatingly. There is enmity between ourseed and their seed. They know it and act onit, strangling our souls. They believe in them-selves. When we believe in ourselves, we shallkill them.

HECTOR. It is the same seed. You for-get that your pirate has a very nice daugh-ter. Mangan’s son may be a Plato: Randall’s aShelley. What was my father?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The damnedstscoundrel I ever met. [He replaces thedrawing-board; sits down at the table; and be-gins to mix a wash of color].

HECTOR. Precisely. Well, dare you kill hisinnocent grandchildren?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They are minealso.

HECTOR. Just so—we are members oneof another. [He throws himself carelessly onthe sofa]. I tell you I have often thought ofthis killing of human vermin. Many men havethought of it. Decent men are like Daniel inthe lion’s den: their survival is a miracle; andthey do not always survive. We live amongthe Mangans and Randalls and Billie Dunnsas they, poor devils, live among the diseasegerms and the doctors and the lawyers andthe parsons and the restaurant chefs and thetradesmen and the servants and all the rest of

126 Heartbreak House

the parasites and blackmailers. What are ourterrors to theirs? Give me the power to killthem; and I’ll spare them in sheer—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [cutting in sharp-ly]. Fellow feeling?

HECTOR. No. I should kill myself if I be-lieved that. I must believe that my spark,small as it is, is divine, and that the red lightover their door is hell fire. I should spare themin simple magnanimous pity.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You can’t sparethem until you have the power to kill them. Atpresent they have the power to kill you. Thereare millions of blacks over the water for themto train and let loose on us. They’re going todo it. They’re doing it already.

HECTOR. They are too stupid to use theirpower.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [throwing downhis brush and coming to the end of the sofa].Do not deceive yourself: they do use it. We killthe better half of ourselves every day to propi-tiate them. The knowledge that these peopleare there to render all our aspirations barrenprevents us having the aspirations. And whenwe are tempted to seek their destruction theybring forth demons to delude us, disguised aspretty daughters, and singers and poets andthe like, for whose sake we spare them.

HECTOR [sitting up and leaning towards

ACT I 127

him]. May not Hesione be such a demon,brought forth by you lest I should slay you?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That is possible.She has used you up, and left you nothing butdreams, as some women do.

HECTOR. Vampire women, demonwomen.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Men think theworld well lost for them, and lose it accord-ingly. Who are the men that do things? Thehusbands of the shrew and of the drunkard,the men with the thorn in the flesh. [Walkingdistractedly away towards the pantry]. I mustthink these things out. [Turning suddenly].But I go on with the dynamite none the less. Iwill discover a ray mightier than any X-ray: amind ray that will explode the ammunition inthe belt of my adversary before he can pointhis gun at me. And I must hurry. I am old: Ihave no time to waste in talk [he is about to gointo the pantry, and Hector is making for thehall, when Hesione comes back].

MRS HUSHABYE. Daddiest, you and Hec-tor must come and help me to entertain allthese people. What on earth were you shout-ing about?

HECTOR [stopping in the act of turningthe door handle]. He is madder than usual.

MRS HUSHABYE. We all are.HECTOR. I must change [he resumes his

128 Heartbreak House

door opening].MRS HUSHABYE. Stop, stop. Come back,

both of you. Come back. [They return, reluc-tantly]. Money is running short.

HECTOR. Money! Where are my April div-idends?

MRS HUSHABYE. Where is the snow thatfell last year?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Where is all themoney you had for that patent lifeboat I in-vented?

MRS HUSHABYE. Five hundred pounds;and I have made it last since Easter!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Since Easter!Barely four months! Monstrous extravagance!I could live for seven years on £500.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not keeping openhouse as we do here, daddiest.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Only £500 for thatlifeboat! I got twelve thousand for the inven-tion before that.

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes, dear; but thatwas for the ship with the magnetic keel thatsucked up submarines. Living at the rate wedo, you cannot afford life-saving inventions.Can’t you think of something that will mur-der half Europe at one bang?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. I am ageingfast. My mind does not dwell on slaughter asit did when I was a boy. Why doesn’t your hus-

ACT I 129

band invent something? He does nothing buttell lies to women.

HECTOR. Well, that is a form of invention,is it not? However, you are right: I ought tosupport my wife.

MRS HUSHABYE. Indeed you shall donothing of the sort: I should never see youfrom breakfast to dinner. I want my husband.

HECTOR [bitterly]. I might as well be yourlapdog.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you want to be mybreadwinner, like the other poor husbands?

HECTOR. No, by thunder! What adamned creature a husband is anyhow!

MRS HUSHABYE [to the captain]. Whatabout that harpoon cannon?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No use. It killswhales, not men.

MRS HUSHABYE. Why not? You fire theharpoon out of a cannon. It sticks in the en-emy’s general; you wind him in; and there youare.

HECTOR. You are your father’s daughter,Hesione.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There is some-thing in it. Not to wind in generals: they arenot dangerous. But one could fire a grapneland wind in a machine gun or even a tank. Iwill think it out.

MRS HUSHABYE [squeezing the captain’s

130 Heartbreak House

arm affectionately]. Saved! You are a dar-ling, daddiest. Now we must go back to thesedreadful people and entertain them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They have had nodinner. Don’t forget that.

HECTOR. Neither have I. And it is dark:it must be all hours.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Guinness will pro-duce some sort of dinner for them. The ser-vants always take jolly good care that there isfood in the house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising a strangewail in the darkness]. What a house! What adaughter!

MRS HUSHABYE [raving]. What a fa-ther!

HECTOR [following suit]. What a hus-band!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is there no thun-der in heaven?

HECTOR. Is there no beauty, no bravery,on earth?

MRS HUSHABYE. What do men want?They have their food, their firesides, theirclothes mended, and our love at the end of theday. Why are they not satisfied? Why do theyenvy us the pain with which we bring theminto the world, and make strange dangers andtorments for themselves to be even with us?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [weirdly chanting].

ACT I 131

I builded a house for my daughters,and opened the doors thereof,

That men might come for their choosing,and their betters spring from their love;

But one of them married a numskull;

HECTOR [taking up the rhythm].

The other a liar wed;

MRS HUSHABYE [completing the stanza].

And now must she lie beside him,even as she made her bed.

LADY UTTERWORD [calling from thegarden]. Hesione! Hesione! Where are you?

HECTOR. The cat is on the tiles.MRS HUSHABYE. Coming, darling, com-

ing [she goes quickly into the garden].The captain goes back to his place at the

table.HECTOR [going out into the hall]. Shall I

turn up the lights for you?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. Give me deep-

er darkness. Money is not made in the light.

132 Heartbreak House

ACT II

The same room, with the lights turned up andthe curtains drawn. Ellie comes in, followedby Mangan. Both are dressed for dinner. Shestrolls to the drawing-table. He comes betweenthe table and the wicker chair.

MANGAN. What a dinner! I don’t call it adinner: I call it a meal.

ELLIE. I am accustomed to meals, MrMangan, and very lucky to get them. Besides,the captain cooked some maccaroni for me.

MANGAN [shuddering liverishly]. Toorich: I can’t eat such things. I suppose it’s be-cause I have to work so much with my brain.That’s the worst of being a man of business:you are always thinking, thinking, thinking.By the way, now that we are alone, may I takethe opportunity to come to a little understand-ing with you?

ELLIE [settling into the draughtsman’sseat]. Certainly. I should like to.

MANGAN [taken aback]. Should you?

133

134 Heartbreak House

That surprises me; for I thought I noticed thisafternoon that you avoided me all you could.Not for the first time either.

ELLIE. I was very tired and upset. Iwasn’t used to the ways of this extraordinaryhouse. Please forgive me.

MANGAN. Oh, that’s all right: I don’tmind. But Captain Shotover has been talkingto me about you. You and me, you know.

ELLIE [interested]. The captain! What didhe say?

MANGAN. Well, he noticed the differencebetween our ages.

ELLIE. He notices everything.MANGAN. You don’t mind, then?ELLIE. Of course I know quite well that

our engagement—MANGAN. Oh! you call it an engagement.ELLIE. Well, isn’t it?MANGAN. Oh, yes, yes: no doubt it is if

you hold to it. This is the first time you’veused the word; and I didn’t quite know wherewe stood: that’s all. [He sits down in thewicker chair; and resigns himself to allow herto lead the conversation]. You were saying—?

ELLIE. Was I? I forget. Tell me. Do youlike this part of the country? I heard you askMr Hushabye at dinner whether there are anynice houses to let down here.

MANGAN. I like the place. The air suits

ACT II 135

me. I shouldn’t be surprised if I settled downhere.

ELLIE. Nothing would please me better.The air suits me too. And I want to be nearHesione.

MANGAN [with growing uneasiness]. Theair may suit us; but the question is, shouldwe suit one another? Have you thought aboutthat?

ELLIE. Mr Mangan, we must be sensible,mustn’t we? It’s no use pretending that weare Romeo and Juliet. But we can get on verywell together if we choose to make the best ofit. Your kindness of heart will make it easyfor me.

MANGAN [leaning forward, with the be-ginning of something like deliberate unpleas-antness in his voice]. Kindness of heart, eh? Iruined your father, didn’t I?

ELLIE. Oh, not intentionally.MANGAN. Yes I did. Ruined him on pur-

pose.ELLIE. On purpose!MANGAN. Not out of ill-nature, you know.

And you’ll admit that I kept a job for himwhen I had finished with him. But businessis business; and I ruined him as a matter ofbusiness.

ELLIE. I don’t understand how that canbe. Are you trying to make me feel that I need

136 Heartbreak House

not be grateful to you, so that I may choosefreely?

MANGAN [rising aggressively]. No. Imean what I say.

ELLIE. But how could it possibly do youany good to ruin my father? The money helost was yours.

MANGAN [with a sour laugh]. Was mine!It is mine, Miss Ellie, and all the money theother fellows lost too. [He shoves his handsinto his pockets and shows his teeth]. I justsmoked them out like a hive of bees. What doyou say to that? A bit of shock, eh?

ELLIE. It would have been, this morning.Now! you can’t think how little it matters. Butit’s quite interesting. Only, you must explainit to me. I don’t understand it. [Proppingher elbows on the drawingboard and her chinon her hands, she composes herself to listenwith a combination of conscious curiosity withunconscious contempt which provokes him tomore and more unpleasantness, and an at-tempt at patronage of her ignorance].

MANGAN. Of course you don’t under-stand: what do you know about business?You just listen and learn. Your father’s busi-ness was a new business; and I don’t startnew businesses: I let other fellows start them.They put all their money and their friends’money into starting them. They wear out

ACT II 137

their souls and bodies trying to make a suc-cess of them. They’re what you call enthusi-asts. But the first dead lift of the thing is toomuch for them; and they haven’t enough fi-nancial experience. In a year or so they haveeither to let the whole show go bust, or sell outto a new lot of fellows for a few deferred ordi-nary shares: that is, if they’re lucky enoughto get anything at all. As likely as not thevery same thing happens to the new lot. Theyput in more money and a couple of years’ morework; and then perhaps they have to sell outto a third lot. If it’s really a big thing thethird lot will have to sell out too, and leavetheir work and their money behind them. Andthat’s where the real business man comes in:where I come in. But I’m cleverer than some:I don’t mind dropping a little money to startthe process. I took your father’s measure. Isaw that he had a sound idea, and that hewould work himself silly for it if he got thechance. I saw that he was a child in business,and was dead certain to outrun his expensesand be in too great a hurry to wait for his mar-ket. I knew that the surest way to ruin a manwho doesn’t know how to handle money is togive him some. I explained my idea to somefriends in the city, and they found the money;for I take no risks in ideas, even when they’remy own. Your father and the friends that ven-

138 Heartbreak House

tured their money with him were no more tome than a heap of squeezed lemons. You’vebeen wasting your gratitude: my kind heart isall rot. I’m sick of it. When I see your fatherbeaming at me with his moist, grateful eyes,regularly wallowing in gratitude, I sometimesfeel I must tell him the truth or burst. Whatstops me is that I know he wouldn’t believeme. He’d think it was my modesty, as you didjust now. He’d think anything rather than thetruth, which is that he’s a blamed fool, andI am a man that knows how to take care ofhimself. [He throws himself back into the bigchair with large self approval]. Now what doyou think of me, Miss Ellie?

ELLIE [dropping her hands]. Howstrange! that my mother, who knew nothingat all about business, should have been quiteright about you! She always said not beforepapa, of course, but to us children—that youwere just that sort of man.

MANGAN [sitting up, much hurt]. Oh! didshe? And yet she’d have let you marry me.

ELLIE. Well, you see, Mr Mangan, mymother married a very good man—for what-ever you may think of my father as a man ofbusiness, he is the soul of goodness—and sheis not at all keen on my doing the same.

MANGAN. Anyhow, you don’t want tomarry me now, do you?

ACT II 139

ELLIE. [very calmly]. Oh, I think so. Whynot?

MANGAN. [rising aghast]. Why not!ELLIE. I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on

very well together.MANGAN. Well, but look here, you know—

[he stops, quite at a loss].ELLIE. [patiently]. Well?MANGAN. Well, I thought you were rather

particular about people’s characters.ELLIE. If we women were particular about

men’s characters, we should never get mar-ried at all, Mr Mangan.

MANGAN. A child like you talking of “wewomen”! What next! You’re not in earnest?

ELLIE. Yes, I am. Aren’t you?MANGAN. You mean to hold me to it?ELLIE. Do you wish to back out of it?MANGAN. Oh, no. Not exactly back out of

it.ELLIE. Well?He has nothing to say. With a long whis-

pered whistle, he drops into the wicker chairand stares before him like a beggared gambler.But a cunning look soon comes into his face.He leans over towards her on his right elbow,and speaks in a low steady voice.

MANGAN. Suppose I told you I was in lovewith another woman!

ELLIE [echoing him]. Suppose I told you I

140 Heartbreak House

was in love with another man!MANGAN [bouncing angrily out of his

chair]. I’m not joking.ELLIE. Who told you I was?MANGAN. I tell you I’m serious. You’re too

young to be serious; but you’ll have to believeme. I want to be near your friend Mrs Hush-abye. I’m in love with her. Now the murder’sout.

ELLIE. I want to be near your friend MrHushabye. I’m in love with him. [She risesand adds with a frank air] Now we are in oneanother’s confidence, we shall be real friends.Thank you for telling me.

MANGAN [almost beside himself ]. Do youthink I’ll be made a convenience of like this?

ELLIE. Come, Mr Mangan! you made abusiness convenience of my father. Well, awoman’s business is marriage. Why shouldn’tI make a domestic convenience of you?

MANGAN. Because I don’t choose, see?Because I’m not a silly gull like your father.That’s why.

ELLIE [with serene contempt]. You are notgood enough to clean my father’s boots, MrMangan; and I am paying you a great compli-ment in condescending to make a convenienceof you, as you call it. Of course you are freeto throw over our engagement if you like; but,if you do, you’ll never enter Hesione’s house

ACT II 141

again: I will take care of that.MANGAN [gasping]. You little devil,

you’ve done me. [On the point of collapsinginto the big chair again he recovers himself ].Wait a bit, though: you’re not so cute as youthink. You can’t beat Boss Mangan as easy asthat. Suppose I go straight to Mrs Hushabyeand tell her that you’re in love with her hus-band.

ELLIE. She knows it.MANGAN. You told her!!!ELLIE. She told me.MANGAN [clutching at his bursting tem-

ples]. Oh, this is a crazy house. Or else I’mgoing clean off my chump. Is she making aswop with you—she to have your husband andyou to have hers?

ELLIE. Well, you don’t want us both, doyou?

MANGAN [throwing himself into the chairdistractedly]. My brain won’t stand it. Myhead’s going to split. Help! Help me to holdit. Quick: hold it: squeeze it. Save me. [Elliecomes behind his chair; clasps his head hardfor a moment; then begins to draw her handsfrom his forehead back to his ears]. Thankyou. [Drowsily]. That’s very refreshing. [Wak-ing a little]. Don’t you hypnotize me, though.I’ve seen men made fools of by hypnotism.

ELLIE [steadily]. Be quiet. I’ve seen men

142 Heartbreak House

made fools of without hypnotism.MANGAN [humbly]. You don’t dislike

touching me, I hope. You never touched mebefore, I noticed.

ELLIE. Not since you fell in love naturallywith a grown-up nice woman, who will neverexpect you to make love to her. And I willnever expect him to make love to me.

MANGAN. He may, though.ELLIE [making her passes rhythmically].

Hush. Go to sleep. Do you hear? You are togo to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep; be quiet,deeply deeply quiet; sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep,sleep.

He falls asleep. Ellie steals away; turns thelight out; and goes into the garden.

Nurse Guinness opens the door and is seenin the light which comes in from the hall.

GUINNESS [speaking to someone outside].Mr Mangan’s not here, duckie: there’s no onehere. It’s all dark.

MRS HUSHABYE [without]. Try the gar-den. Mr Dunn and I will be in my boudoir.Show him the way.

GUINNESS. Yes, ducky. [She makes forthe garden door in the dark; stumbles over thesleeping Mangan and screams]. Ahoo! O Lord,Sir! I beg your pardon, I’m sure: I didn’t seeyou in the dark. Who is it? [She goes back tothe door and turns on the light]. Oh, Mr Man-

ACT II 143

gan, sir, I hope I haven’t hurt you plumpinginto your lap like that. [Coming to him]. Iwas looking for you, sir. Mrs Hushabye sayswill you please [noticing that he remains quiteinsensible]. Oh, my good Lord, I hope I haven’tkilled him. Sir! Mr Mangan! Sir! [She shakeshim; and he is rolling inertly off the chair onthe floor when she holds him up and propshim against the cushion]. Miss Hessy! MissHessy! quick, doty darling. Miss Hessy! [MrsHushabye comes in from the hall, followed byMazzini Dunn]. Oh, Miss Hessy, I’ve been andkilled him.

Mazzini runs round the back of the chair toMangan’s right hand, and sees that the nurse’swords are apparently only too true.

MAZZINI. What tempted you to commitsuch a crime, woman?

MRS HUSHABYE [trying not to laugh].Do you mean, you did it on purpose?

GUINNESS. Now is it likely I’d kill anyman on purpose? I fell over him in the dark;and I’m a pretty tidy weight. He never spokenor moved until I shook him; and then hewould have dropped dead on the floor. Isn’tit tiresome?

MRS HUSHABYE [going past the nurse toMangan’s side, and inspecting him less cred-ulously than Mazzini]. Nonsense! he is notdead: he is only asleep. I can see him breath-

144 Heartbreak House

ing.GUINNESS. But why won’t he wake?MAZZINI [speaking very politely into Man-

gan’s ear]. Mangan! My dear Mangan! [heblows into Mangan’s ear].

MRS HUSHABYE. That’s no good [sheshakes him vigorously]. Mr Mangan, wake up.Do you hear? [He begins to roll over]. Oh!Nurse, nurse: he’s falling: help me.

Nurse Guinness rushes to the rescue. WithMazzini’s assistance, Mangan is proppedsafely up again.

GUINNESS [behind the chair; bendingover to test the case with her nose]. Would hebe drunk, do you think, pet?

MRS HUSHABYE. Had he any of papa’srum?

MAZZINI. It can’t be that: he is most ab-stemious. I am afraid he drank too much for-merly, and has to drink too little now. Youknow, Mrs Hushabye, I really think he hasbeen hypnotized.

GUINNESS. Hip no what, sir?MAZZINI. One evening at home, after we

had seen a hypnotizing performance, the chil-dren began playing at it; and Ellie stroked myhead. I assure you I went off dead asleep; andthey had to send for a professional to wake meup after I had slept eighteen hours. They hadto carry me upstairs; and as the poor children

ACT II 145

were not very strong, they let me slip; and Irolled right down the whole flight and neverwoke up. [Mrs Hushabye splutters]. Oh, youmay laugh, Mrs Hushabye; but I might havebeen killed.

MRS HUSHABYE. I couldn’t have helpedlaughing even if you had been, Mr Dunn. SoEllie has hypnotized him. What fun!

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. It was such a ter-rible lesson to her: nothing would induce herto try such a thing again.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then who did it? Ididn’t.

MAZZINI. I thought perhaps the captainmight have done it unintentionally. He is sofearfully magnetic: I feel vibrations wheneverhe comes close to me.

GUINNESS. The captain will get him outof it anyhow, sir: I’ll back him for that. I’ll gofetch him [she makes for the pantry].

MRS HUSHABYE. Wait a bit. [To Mazz-ini]. You say he is all right for eighteen hours?

MAZZINI. Well, I was asleep for eighteenhours.

MRS HUSHABYE. Were you any theworse for it?

MAZZINI. I don’t quite remember. Theyhad poured brandy down my throat, you see;and—

MRS HUSHABYE. Quite. Anyhow, you

146 Heartbreak House

survived. Nurse, darling: go and ask MissDunn to come to us here. Say I want to speakto her particularly. You will find her with MrHushabye probably.

GUINNESS. I think not, ducky: Miss Addyis with him. But I’ll find her and send her toyou. [She goes out into the garden].

MRS HUSHABYE [calling Mazzini’s at-tention to the figure on the chair]. Now, MrDunn, look. Just look. Look hard. Do youstill intend to sacrifice your daughter to thatthing?

MAZZINI [troubled]. You have completelyupset me, Mrs Hushabye, by all you have saidto me. That anyone could imagine that I—I,a consecrated soldier of freedom, if I may sayso—could sacrifice Ellie to anybody or anyone,or that I should ever have dreamed of forcingher inclinations in any way, is a most painfulblow to my—well, I suppose you would say tomy good opinion of myself.

MRS HUSHABYE [rather stolidly]. Sorry.MAZZINI [looking forlornly at the body].

What is your objection to poor Mangan, MrsHushabye? He looks all right to me. But thenI am so accustomed to him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Have you no heart?Have you no sense? Look at the brute! Thinkof poor weak innocent Ellie in the clutchesof this slavedriver, who spends his life mak-

ACT II 147

ing thousands of rough violent workmen bendto his will and sweat for him: a man accus-tomed to have great masses of iron beateninto shape for him by steam-hammers! to fightwith women and girls over a halfpenny anhour ruthlessly! a captain of industry, I thinkyou call him, don’t you? Are you going to flingyour delicate, sweet, helpless child into sucha beast’s claws just because he will keep herin an expensive house and make her wear di-amonds to show how rich he is?

MAZZINI [staring at her in wide-eyedamazement]. Bless you, dear Mrs Hushabye,what romantic ideas of business you have!Poor dear Mangan isn’t a bit like that.

MRS HUSHABYE [scornfully]. Poor dearMangan indeed!

MAZZINI. But he doesn’t know anythingabout machinery. He never goes near the men:he couldn’t manage them: he is afraid of them.I never can get him to take the least inter-est in the works: he hardly knows more aboutthem than you do. People are cruelly unjust toMangan: they think he is all rugged strengthjust because his manners are bad.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you mean to tell mehe isn’t strong enough to crush poor little El-lie?

MAZZINI. Of course it’s very hard to sayhow any marriage will turn out; but speaking

148 Heartbreak House

for myself, I should say that he won’t have adog’s chance against Ellie. You know, Ellie hasremarkable strength of character. I think itis because I taught her to like Shakespearewhen she was very young.

MRS HUSHABYE [contemptuously]. Sha-kespeare! The next thing you will tell me isthat you could have made a great deal moremoney than Mangan. [She retires to the sofa,and sits down at the port end of it in the worstof humors].

MAZZINI [following her and taking theother end]. No: I’m no good at making money.I don’t care enough for it, somehow. I’m notambitious! that must be it. Mangan is won-derful about money: he thinks of nothing else.He is so dreadfully afraid of being poor. I amalways thinking of other things: even at theworks I think of the things we are doing andnot of what they cost. And the worst of it is,poor Mangan doesn’t know what to do with hismoney when he gets it. He is such a baby thathe doesn’t know even what to eat and drink:he has ruined his liver eating and drinkingthe wrong things; and now he can hardly eatat all. Ellie will diet him splendidly. You willbe surprised when you come to know him bet-ter: he is really the most helpless of mortals.You get quite a protective feeling towards him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then who manages his

ACT II 149

business, pray?MAZZINI. I do. And of course other people

like me.MRS HUSHABYE. Footling people, you

mean.MAZZINI. I suppose you’d think us so.MRS HUSHABYE. And pray why don’t

you do without him if you’re all so much clev-erer?

MAZZINI. Oh, we couldn’t: we should ruinthe business in a year. I’ve tried; and I know.We should spend too much on everything. Weshould improve the quality of the goods andmake them too dear. We should be sentimen-tal about the hard cases among the work peo-ple. But Mangan keeps us in order. He isdown on us about every extra halfpenny. Wecould never do without him. You see, he willsit up all night thinking of how to save six-pence. Won’t Ellie make him jump, though,when she takes his house in hand!

MRS HUSHABYE. Then the creature is afraud even as a captain of industry!

MAZZINI. I am afraid all the captains ofindustry are what you call frauds, Mrs Hush-abye. Of course there are some manufactur-ers who really do understand their own works;but they don’t make as high a rate of profit asMangan does. I assure you Mangan is quite agood fellow in his way. He means well.

150 Heartbreak House

MRS HUSHABYE. He doesn’t look well.He is not in his first youth, is he?

MAZZINI. After all, no husband is in hisfirst youth for very long, Mrs Hushabye. Andmen can’t afford to marry in their first youthnowadays.

MRS HUSHABYE. Now if I said that, itwould sound witty. Why can’t you say it wit-tily? What on earth is the matter with you?Why don’t you inspire everybody with confi-dence? with respect?

MAZZINI [humbly]. I think that what isthe matter with me is that I am poor. Youdon’t know what that means at home. Mind: Idon’t say they have ever complained. They’veall been wonderful: they’ve been proud of mypoverty. They’ve even joked about it quite of-ten. But my wife has had a very poor time ofit. She has been quite resigned—

MRS HUSHABYE [shuddering involun-tarily]!!

MAZZINI. There! You see, Mrs Hushabye.I don’t want Ellie to live on resignation.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you want her tohave to resign herself to living with a man shedoesn’t love?

MAZZINI [wistfully]. Are you sure thatwould be worse than living with a man shedid love, if he was a footling person?

MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her contemp-

ACT II 151

tuous attitude, quite interested in Mazzininow]. You know, I really think you must loveEllie very much; for you become quite cleverwhen you talk about her.

MAZZINI. I didn’t know I was so verystupid on other subjects.

MRS HUSHABYE. You are, sometimes.MAZZINI [turning his head away; for his

eyes are wet]. I have learnt a good dealabout myself from you, Mrs Hushabye; andI’m afraid I shall not be the happier for yourplain speaking. But if you thought I neededit to make me think of Ellie’s happiness youwere very much mistaken.

MRS HUSHABYE [leaning towards himkindly]. Have I been a beast?

MAZZINI [pulling himself together]. Itdoesn’t matter about me, Mrs Hushabye. Ithink you like Ellie; and that is enough forme.

MRS HUSHABYE. I’m beginning to likeyou a little. I perfectly loathed you at first.I thought you the most odious, self-satisfied,boresome elderly prig I ever met.

MAZZINI [resigned, and now quite cheer-ful]. I daresay I am all that. I never havebeen a favorite with gorgeous women like you.They always frighten me.

MRS HUSHABYE [pleased]. Am I a gor-geous woman, Mazzini? I shall fall in love

152 Heartbreak House

with you presently.MAZZINI [with placid gallantry]. No, you

won’t, Hesione. But you would be quite safe.Would you believe it that quite a lot of womenhave flirted with me because I am quite safe?But they get tired of me for the same reason.

MRS HUSHABYE [mischievously]. Takecare. You may not be so safe as you think.

MAZZINI. Oh yes, quite safe. You see, Ihave been in love really: the sort of love thatonly happens once. [Softly]. That’s why Ellieis such a lovely girl.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, really, you arecoming out. Are you quite sure you won’t letme tempt you into a second grand passion?

MAZZINI. Quite. It wouldn’t be natu-ral. The fact is, you don’t strike on my box,Mrs Hushabye; and I certainly don’t strike onyours.

MRS HUSHABYE. I see. Your marriagewas a safety match.

MAZZINI. What a very witty applicationof the expression I used! I should never havethought of it.

Ellie comes in from the garden, lookinganything but happy.

MRS HUSHABYE [rising]. Oh! here is El-lie at last. [She goes behind the sofa].

ELLIE [on the threshold of the starboarddoor]. Guinness said you wanted me: you and

ACT II 153

papa.MRS HUSHABYE. You have kept us wait-

ing so long that it almost came to—well, nevermind. Your father is a very wonderful man[she ruffles his hair affectionately]: the onlyone I ever met who could resist me when Imade myself really agreeable. [She comes tothe big chair, on Mangan’s left]. Come here.I have something to show you. [Ellie strollslistlessly to the other side of the chair]. Look.

ELLIE [contemplating Mangan without in-terest]. I know. He is only asleep. We hada talk after dinner; and he fell asleep in themiddle of it.

MRS HUSHABYE. You did it, Ellie. Youput him asleep.

MAZZINI [rising quickly and coming to theback of the chair]. Oh, I hope not. Did you,Ellie?

ELLIE [wearily]. He asked me to.MAZZINI. But it’s dangerous. You know

what happened to me.ELLIE [utterly indifferent]. Oh, I daresay

I can wake him. If not, somebody else can.MRS HUSHABYE. It doesn’t matter, any-

how, because I have at last persuaded your fa-ther that you don’t want to marry him.

ELLIE [suddenly coming out of her listless-ness, much vexed]. But why did you do that,Hesione? I do want to marry him. I fully in-

154 Heartbreak House

tend to marry him.MAZZINI. Are you quite sure, Ellie? Mrs

Hushabye has made me feel that I may havebeen thoughtless and selfish about it.

ELLIE [very clearly and steadily]. Papa.When Mrs. Hushabye takes it on herself to ex-plain to you what I think or don’t think, shutyour ears tight; and shut your eyes too. Hes-ione knows nothing about me: she hasn’t theleast notion of the sort of person I am, andnever will. I promise you I won’t do anythingI don’t want to do and mean to do for my ownsake.

MAZZINI. You are quite, quite sure?ELLIE. Quite, quite sure. Now you must

go away and leave me to talk to Mrs Husha-bye.

MAZZINI. But I should like to hear. ShallI be in the way?

ELLIE [inexorable]. I had rather talk toher alone.

MAZZINI [affectionately]. Oh, well, I knowwhat a nuisance parents are, dear. I will begood and go. [He goes to the garden door].By the way, do you remember the address ofthat professional who woke me up? Don’t youthink I had better telegraph to him?

MRS HUSHABYE [moving towards thesofa]. It’s too late to telegraph tonight.

MAZZINI. I suppose so. I do hope he’ll

ACT II 155

wake up in the course of the night. [He goesout into the garden].

ELLIE [turning vigorously on Hesione themoment her father is out of the room]. Hes-ione, what the devil do you mean by makingmischief with my father about Mangan?

MRS HUSHABYE [promptly losing hertemper]. Don’t you dare speak to me like that,you little minx. Remember that you are in myhouse.

ELLIE. Stuff! Why don’t you mind yourown business? What is it to you whether Ichoose to marry Mangan or not?

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you suppose youcan bully me, you miserable little matrimonialadventurer?

ELLIE. Every woman who hasn’t anymoney is a matrimonial adventurer. It’s easyfor you to talk: you have never known whatit is to want money; and you can pick upmen as if they were daisies. I am poor andrespectable—

MRS HUSHABYE [interrupting]. Ho! re-spectable! How did you pick up Mangan? Howdid you pick up my husband? You have the au-dacity to tell me that I am a—a—a—

ELLIE. A siren. So you are. You were bornto lead men by the nose: if you weren’t, Mar-cus would have waited for me, perhaps.

MRS HUSHABYE [suddenly melting and

156 Heartbreak House

half laughing]. Oh, my poor Ellie, my pet-tikins, my unhappy darling! I am so sorryabout Hector. But what can I do? It’s not myfault: I’d give him to you if I could.

ELLIE. I don’t blame you for that.MRS HUSHABYE. What a brute I was to

quarrel with you and call you names! Do kissme and say you’re not angry with me.

ELLIE [fiercely]. Oh, don’t slop and gushand be sentimental. Don’t you see that un-less I can be hard—as hard as nails—I shallgo mad? I don’t care a damn about your call-ing me names: do you think a woman in mysituation can feel a few hard words?

MRS HUSHABYE. Poor little woman!Poor little situation!

ELLIE. I suppose you think you’re beingsympathetic. You are just foolish and stupidand selfish. You see me getting a smasherright in the face that kills a whole part of mylife: the best part that can never come again;and you think you can help me over it by alittle coaxing and kissing. When I want allthe strength I can get to lean on: somethingiron, something stony, I don’t care how cruelit is, you go all mushy and want to slobberover me. I’m not angry; I’m not unfriendly;but for God’s sake do pull yourself together;and don’t think that because you’re on velvetand always have been, women who are in hell

ACT II 157

can take it as easily as you.MRS HUSHABYE [shrugging her shoul-

ders]. Very well. [She sits down on the sofain her old place.] But I warn you that whenI am neither coaxing and kissing nor laugh-ing, I am just wondering how much longer Ican stand living in this cruel, damnable world.You object to the siren: well, I drop the siren.You want to rest your wounded bosom againsta grindstone. Well [folding her arms] here isthe grindstone.

ELLIE [sitting down beside her, appeased].That’s better: you really have the trick offalling in with everyone’s mood; but you don’tunderstand, because you are not the sort ofwoman for whom there is only one man andonly one chance.

MRS HUSHABYE. I certainly don’t under-stand how your marrying that object [indicat-ing Mangan] will console you for not beingable to marry Hector.

ELLIE. Perhaps you don’t understand whyI was quite a nice girl this morning, and amnow neither a girl nor particularly nice.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, yes, I do. It’s be-cause you have made up your mind to dosomething despicable and wicked.

ELLIE. I don’t think so, Hesione. I mustmake the best of my ruined house.

MRS HUSHABYE. Pooh! You’ll get over it.

158 Heartbreak House

Your house isn’t ruined.ELLIE. Of course I shall get over it. You

don’t suppose I’m going to sit down and dieof a broken heart, I hope, or be an old maidliving on a pittance from the Sick and Indi-gent Roomkeepers’ Association. But my heartis broken, all the same. What I mean by thatis that I know that what has happened to mewith Marcus will not happen to me ever again.In the world for me there is Marcus and a lotof other men of whom one is just the same asanother. Well, if I can’t have love, that’s noreason why I should have poverty. If Manganhas nothing else, he has money.

MRS HUSHABYE. And are there no youngmen with money?

ELLIE. Not within my reach. Besides, ayoung man would have the right to expect lovefrom me, and would perhaps leave me whenhe found I could not give it to him. Rich youngmen can get rid of their wives, you know,pretty cheaply. But this object, as you callhim, can expect nothing more from me thanI am prepared to give him.

MRS HUSHABYE. He will be your owner,remember. If he buys you, he will make thebargain pay him and not you. Ask your father.

ELLIE [rising and strolling to the chair tocontemplate their subject]. You need not trou-ble on that score, Hesione. I have more to give

ACT II 159

Boss Mangan than he has to give me: it isI who am buying him, and at a pretty goodprice too, I think. Women are better at thatsort of bargain than men. I have taken theBoss’s measure; and ten Boss Mangans shallnot prevent me doing far more as I please ashis wife than I have ever been able to do asa poor girl. [Stooping to the recumbent figure].Shall they, Boss? I think not. [She passes on tothe drawing-table, and leans against the endof it, facing the windows]. I shall not have tospend most of my time wondering how longmy gloves will last, anyhow.

MRS HUSHABYE [rising superbly]. Ellie,you are a wicked, sordid little beast. And tothink that I actually condescended to fasci-nate that creature there to save you from him!Well, let me tell you this: if you make thisdisgusting match, you will never see Hectoragain if I can help it.

ELLIE [unmoved]. I nailed Mangan bytelling him that if he did not marry me heshould never see you again [she lifts herselfon her wrists and seats herself on the end ofthe table].

MRS HUSHABYE [recoiling]. Oh!ELLIE. So you see I am not unprepared for

your playing that trump against me. Well, youjust try it: that’s all. I should have made aman of Marcus, not a household pet.

160 Heartbreak House

MRS HUSHABYE [flaming]. You dare!ELLIE [looking almost dangerous]. Set

him thinking about me if you dare.MRS HUSHABYE. Well, of all the impu-

dent little fiends I ever met! Hector says thereis a certain point at which the only answer youcan give to a man who breaks all the rules isto knock him down. What would you say if Iwere to box your ears?

ELLIE [calmly]. I should pull your hair.MRS HUSHABYE [mischievously]. That

wouldn’t hurt me. Perhaps it comes off atnight.

ELLIE [so taken aback that she drops offthe table and runs to her]. Oh, you don’t meanto say, Hesione, that your beautiful black hairis false?

MRS HUSHABYE [patting it]. Don’t tellHector. He believes in it.

ELLIE [groaning]. Oh! Even the hair thatensnared him false! Everything false!

MRS HUSHABYE. Pull it and try. Otherwomen can snare men in their hair; but I canswing a baby on mine. Aha! you can’t do that,Goldylocks.

ELLIE [heartbroken]. No. You have stolenmy babies.

MRS HUSHABYE. Pettikins, don’t makeme cry. You know what you said about mymaking a household pet of him is a little

ACT II 161

true. Perhaps he ought to have waited for you.Would any other woman on earth forgive you?

ELLIE. Oh, what right had you to takehim all for yourself! [Pulling herself together].There! You couldn’t help it: neither of us couldhelp it. He couldn’t help it. No, don’t say any-thing more: I can’t bear it. Let us wake the ob-ject. [She begins stroking Mangan’s head, re-versing the movement with which she put himto sleep]. Wake up, do you hear? You are towake up at once. Wake up, wake up, wake—

MANGAN [bouncing out of the chair in afury and turning on them]. Wake up! So youthink I’ve been asleep, do you? [He kicks thechair violently back out of his way, and getsbetween them]. You throw me into a tranceso that I can’t move hand or foot—I mighthave been buried alive! it’s a mercy I wasn’t—and then you think I was only asleep. Ifyou’d let me drop the two times you rolledme about, my nose would have been flattenedfor life against the floor. But I’ve found youall out, anyhow. I know the sort of peopleI’m among now. I’ve heard every word you’vesaid, you and your precious father, and [toMrs Hushabye] you too. So I’m an object, amI? I’m a thing, am I? I’m a fool that hasn’tsense enough to feed myself properly, am I?I’m afraid of the men that would starve if itweren’t for the wages I give them, am I? I’m

162 Heartbreak House

nothing but a disgusting old skinflint to bemade a convenience of by designing womenand fool managers of my works, am I? I’m—

MRS HUSHABYE [with the most elegantaplomb]. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh! Mr Mangan, youare bound in honor to obliterate from yourmind all you heard while you were pretend-ing to be asleep. It was not meant for you tohear.

MANGAN. Pretending to be asleep! Doyou think if I was only pretending that I’dhave sprawled there helpless, and listened tosuch unfairness, such lies, such injustice andplotting and backbiting and slandering of me,if I could have up and told you what I thoughtof you! I wonder I didn’t burst.

MRS HUSHABYE [sweetly]. You dreamtit all, Mr Mangan. We were only saying howbeautifully peaceful you looked in your sleep.That was all, wasn’t it, Ellie? Believe me,Mr Mangan, all those unpleasant things cameinto your mind in the last half second be-fore you woke. Ellie rubbed your hair thewrong way; and the disagreeable sensationsuggested a disagreeable dream.

MANGAN [doggedly]. I believe in dreams.MRS HUSHABYE. So do I. But they go by

contraries, don’t they?MANGAN [depths of emotion suddenly

welling up in him]. I shan’t forget, to my dy-

ACT II 163

ing day, that when you gave me the glad eyethat time in the garden, you were making afool of me. That was a dirty low mean thing todo. You had no right to let me come near youif I disgusted you. It isn’t my fault if I’m oldand haven’t a moustache like a bronze candle-stick as your husband has. There are thingsno decent woman would do to a man—like aman hitting a woman in the breast.

Hesione, utterly shamed, sits down on thesofa and covers her face with her hands. Man-gan sits down also on his chair and beginsto cry like a child. Ellie stares at them. MrsHushabye, at the distressing sound he makes,takes down her hands and looks at him. Sherises and runs to him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Don’t cry: I can’t bearit. Have I broken your heart? I didn’t knowyou had one. How could I?

MANGAN. I’m a man, ain’t I?MRS HUSHABYE [half coaxing, half ral-

lying, altogether tenderly]. Oh no: not what Icall a man. Only a Boss: just that and nothingelse. What business has a Boss with a heart?

MANGAN. Then you’re not a bit sorry forwhat you did, nor ashamed?

MRS HUSHABYE. I was ashamed for thefirst time in my life when you said that abouthitting a woman in the breast, and I foundout what I’d done. My very bones blushed red.

164 Heartbreak House

You’ve had your revenge, Boss. Aren’t you sat-isfied?

MANGAN. Serve you right! Do you hear?Serve you right! You’re just cruel. Cruel.

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes: cruelty would bedelicious if one could only find some sort ofcruelty that didn’t really hurt. By the way [sit-ting down beside him on the arm of the chair],what’s your name? It’s not really Boss, is it?

MANGAN [shortly]. If you want to know,my name’s Alfred.

MRS HUSHABYE [springs up]. Alfred!!Ellie, he was christened after Tennyson!!!

MANGAN [rising]. I was christened aftermy uncle, and never had a penny from him,damn him! What of it?

MRS HUSHABYE. It comes to me sud-denly that you are a real person: that you hada mother, like anyone else. [Putting her handson his shoulders and surveying him]. LittleAlf!

MANGAN. Well, you have a nerve.MRS HUSHABYE. And you have a heart,

Alfy, a whimpering little heart, but a real one.[Releasing him suddenly]. Now run and makeit up with Ellie. She has had time to thinkwhat to say to you, which is more than I had[she goes out quickly into the garden by theport door].

MANGAN. That woman has a pair of

ACT II 165

hands that go right through you.ELLIE. Still in love with her, in spite of all

we said about you?MANGAN. Are all women like you two? Do

they never think of anything about a man ex-cept what they can get out of him? You weren’teven thinking that about me. You were onlythinking whether your gloves would last.

ELLIE. I shall not have to think about thatwhen we are married.

MANGAN. And you think I am going tomarry you after what I heard there!

ELLIE. You heard nothing from me that Idid not tell you before.

MANGAN. Perhaps you think I can’t dowithout you.

ELLIE. I think you would feel lonely with-out us all, now, after coming to know us sowell.

MANGAN [with something like a yell of de-spair]. Am I never to have the last word?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [appearing at thestarboard garden door]. There is a soul in tor-ment here. What is the matter?

MANGAN. This girl doesn’t want to spendher life wondering how long her gloves willlast.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [passing through].Don’t wear any. I never do [he goes into thepantry].

166 Heartbreak House

LADY UTTERWORD [appearing at theport garden door, in a handsome dinner dress].Is anything the matter?

ELLIE. This gentleman wants to know ishe never to have the last word?

LADY UTTERWORD [coming forward tothe sofa]. I should let him have it, my dear.The important thing is not to have the lastword, but to have your own way.

MANGAN. She wants both.LADY UTTERWORD. She won’t get them,

Mr Mangan. Providence always has the lastword.

MANGAN [desperately]. Now you are go-ing to come religion over me. In this house aman’s mind might as well be a football. I’m go-ing. [He makes for the hall, but is stopped bya hail from the Captain, who has just emergedfrom his pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Whither away,Boss Mangan?

MANGAN. To hell out of this house: letthat be enough for you and all here.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You were welcometo come: you are free to go. The wide earth,the high seas, the spacious skies are waitingfor you outside.

LADY UTTERWORD. But your things, MrMangan. Your bag, your comb and brushes,your pyjamas—

ACT II 167

HECTOR [who has just appeared in theport doorway in a handsome Arab costume].Why should the escaping slave take his chainswith him?

MANGAN. That’s right, Hushabye. Keepthe pyjamas, my lady, and much good maythey do you.

HECTOR [advancing to Lady Utterword’sleft hand]. Let us all go out into the night andleave everything behind us.

MANGAN. You stay where you are, the lotof you. I want no company, especially femalecompany.

ELLIE. Let him go. He is unhappy here.He is angry with us.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go, Boss Mangan;and when you have found the land wherethere is happiness and where there are nowomen, send me its latitude and longitude;and I will join you there.

LADY UTTERWORD. You will certainlynot be comfortable without your luggage, MrMangan.

ELLIE [impatient]. Go, go: why don’t yougo? It is a heavenly night: you can sleep onthe heath. Take my waterproof to lie on: it ishanging up in the hall.

HECTOR. Breakfast at nine, unless youprefer to breakfast with the captain at six.

ELLIE. Good night, Alfred.

168 Heartbreak House

HECTOR. Alfred! [He runs back to thedoor and calls into the garden]. Randall, Man-gan’s Christian name is Alfred.

RANDALL [appearing in the starboarddoorway in evening dress]. Then Hesione winsher bet.

Mrs Hushabye appears in the port door-way. She throws her left arm round Hector’sneck: draws him with her to the back of thesofa: and throws her right arm round LadyUtterword’s neck.

MRS HUSHABYE. They wouldn’t believeme, Alf.

They contemplate him.MANGAN. Is there any more of you com-

ing in to look at me, as if I was the latest thingin a menagerie?

MRS HUSHABYE. You are the latestthing in this menagerie.

Before Mangan can retort, a fall of furni-ture is heard from upstairs: then a pistol shot,and a yell of pain. The staring group breaksup in consternation.

MAZZINI’S VOICE [from above]. Help! Aburglar! Help!

HECTOR [his eyes blazing]. A burglar!!!MRS HUSHABYE. No, Hector: you’ll be

shot [but it is too late; he has dashed out pastMangan, who hastily moves towards the book-shelves out of his way].

ACT II 169

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [blowing his whis-tle]. All hands aloft! [He strides out after Hec-tor].

LADY UTTERWORD. My diamonds! [Shefollows the captain].

RANDALL [rushing after her]. No. Ari-adne. Let me.

ELLIE. Oh, is papa shot? [She runs out].MRS HUSHABYE. Are you frightened,

Alf?MANGAN. No. It ain’t my house, thank

God.MRS HUSHABYE. If they catch a burglar,

shall we have to go into court as witnesses,and be asked all sorts of questions about ourprivate lives?

MANGAN. You won’t be believed if you tellthe truth.

Mazzini, terribly upset, with a duelling pis-tol in his hand, comes from the hall, andmakes his way to the drawing-table.

MAZZINI. Oh, my dear Mrs Hushabye, Imight have killed him. [He throws the pistolon the table and staggers round to the chair].I hope you won’t believe I really intended to.

Hector comes in, marching an old and vil-lainous looking man before him by the collar.He plants him in the middle of the room andreleases him.

Ellie follows, and immediately runs across

170 Heartbreak House

to the back of her father’s chair and pats hisshoulders.

RANDALL [entering with a poker]. Keepyour eye on this door, Mangan. I’ll look afterthe other [he goes to the starboard door andstands on guard there].

Lady Utterword comes in after Randall,and goes between Mrs Hushabye and Mangan.

Nurse Guinness brings up the rear, andwaits near the door, on Mangan’s left.

MRS HUSHABYE. What has happened?MAZZINI. Your housekeeper told me there

was somebody upstairs, and gave me a pistolthat Mr Hushabye had been practising with. Ithought it would frighten him; but it went offat a touch.

THE BURGLAR. Yes, and took the skin offmy ear. Precious near took the top off myhead. Why don’t you have a proper revolverinstead of a thing like that, that goes off if youas much as blow on it?

HECTOR. One of my duelling pistols.Sorry.

MAZZINI. He put his hands up and said itwas a fair cop.

THE BURGLAR. So it was. Send for thepolice.

HECTOR. No, by thunder! It was not a faircop. We were four to one.

MRS HUSHABYE. What will they do to

ACT II 171

him?THE BURGLAR. Ten years. Beginning

with solitary. Ten years off my life. I shan’tserve it all: I’m too old. It will see me out.

LADY UTTERWORD. You should havethought of that before you stole my diamonds.

THE BURGLAR. Well, you’ve got themback, lady, haven’t you? Can you give me backthe years of my life you are going to take fromme?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, we can’t bury aman alive for ten years for a few diamonds.

THE BURGLAR. Ten little shining dia-monds! Ten long black years!

LADY UTTERWORD. Think of what it isfor us to be dragged through the horrors ofa criminal court, and have all our family af-fairs in the papers! If you were a native, andHastings could order you a good beating andsend you away, I shouldn’t mind; but here inEngland there is no real protection for any re-spectable person.

THE BURGLAR. I’m too old to be giv a hid-ing, lady. Send for the police and have donewith it. It’s only just and right you should.

RANDALL [who has relaxed his vigilanceon seeing the burglar so pacifically disposed,and comes forward swinging the poker be-tween his fingers like a well folded umbrella].It is neither just nor right that we should be

172 Heartbreak House

put to a lot of inconvenience to gratify yourmoral enthusiasm, my friend. You had betterget out, while you have the chance.

THE BURGLAR [inexorably]. No. I mustwork my sin off my conscience. This has comeas a sort of call to me. Let me spend the restof my life repenting in a cell. I shall have myreward above.

MANGAN [exasperated]. The very bur-glars can’t behave naturally in this house.

HECTOR. My good sir, you must workout your salvation at somebody else’s expense.Nobody here is going to charge you.

THE BURGLAR. Oh, you won’t charge me,won’t you?

HECTOR. No. I’m sorry to be inhospitable;but will you kindly leave the house?

THE BURGLAR. Right. I’ll go to the po-lice station and give myself up. [He turns res-olutely to the door: but Hector stops him].

HECTOR. Oh, no. You mustn’tdo that.

RANDALL. No no. Clear outman, can’t you; anddon’t be a fool.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Don’t be so silly.Can’t you repent athome?

LADY UTTERWORD. You will have to doas you are told.

ACT II 173

THE BURGLAR. It’s compounding afelony, you know.

MRS HUSHABYE. This is utterly ridicu-lous. Are we to be forced to prosecute this manwhen we don’t want to?

THE BURGLAR. Am I to be robbed of mysalvation to save you the trouble of spendinga day at the sessions? Is that justice? Is itright? Is it fair to me?

MAZZINI [rising and leaning across the ta-ble persuasively as if it were a pulpit desk ora shop counter]. Come, come! let me showyou how you can turn your very crimes to ac-count. Why not set up as a locksmith? Youmust know more about locks than most hon-est men?

THE BURGLAR. That’s true, sir. But Icouldn’t set up as a locksmith under twentypounds.

RANDALL. Well, you can easily stealtwenty pounds. You will find it in the near-est bank.

THE BURGLAR [horrified]. Oh, what athing for a gentleman to put into the head ofa poor criminal scrambling out of the bottom-less pit as it were! Oh, shame on you, sir! Oh,God forgive you! [He throws himself into thebig chair and covers his face as if in prayer].

LADY UTTERWORD. Really, Randall!HECTOR. It seems to me that we shall

174 Heartbreak House

have to take up a collection for this inoppor-tunely contrite sinner.

LADY UTTERWORD. But twenty poundsis ridiculous.

THE BURGLAR [looking up quickly]. Ishall have to buy a lot of tools, lady.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense: you haveyour burgling kit.

THE BURGLAR. What’s a jimmy and acentrebit and an acetylene welding plant anda bunch of skeleton keys? I shall want a forge,and a smithy, and a shop, and fittings. I can’thardly do it for twenty.

HECTOR. My worthy friend, we haven’tgot twenty pounds.

THE BURGLAR [now master of the situa-tion]. You can raise it among you, can’t you?

MRS HUSHABYE. Give him a sovereign,Hector, and get rid of him.

HECTOR [giving him a pound]. There! Offwith you.

THE BURGLAR [rising and taking themoney very ungratefully]. I won’t promisenothing. You have more on you than a quid:all the lot of you, I mean.

LADY UTTERWORD [vigorously]. Oh, letus prosecute him and have done with it. Ihave a conscience too, I hope; and I do not feelat all sure that we have any right to let himgo, especially if he is going to be greedy and

ACT II 175

impertinent.THE BURGLAR [quickly]. All right, lady,

all right. I’ve no wish to be anything butagreeable. Good evening, ladies and gentle-men; and thank you kindly.

He is hurrying out when he is confronted inthe doorway by Captain Shotover.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [fixing the burglarwith a piercing regard]. What’s this? Arethere two of you?

THE BURGLAR [falling on his knees be-fore the captain in abject terror]. Oh, my goodLord, what have I done? Don’t tell me it’s yourhouse I’ve broken into, Captain Shotover.

The captain seizes him by the collar: dragshim to his feet: and leads him to the middle ofthe group, Hector falling back beside his wifeto make way for them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [turning him to-wards Ellie]. Is that your daughter? [He re-leases him].

THE BURGLAR. Well, how do I know,Captain? You know the sort of life you andme has led. Any young lady of that age mightbe my daughter anywhere in the wide world,as you might say.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mazzini]. Youare not Billy Dunn. This is Billy Dunn. Whyhave you imposed on me?

THE BURGLAR [indignantly to Mazzini].

176 Heartbreak House

Have you been giving yourself out to be me?You, that nigh blew my head off! Shootingyourself, in a manner of speaking!

MAZZINI. My dear Captain Shotover, eversince I came into this house I have donehardly anything else but assure you that I amnot Mr William Dunn, but Mazzini Dunn, avery different person.

THE BURGLAR. He don’t belong to mybranch, Captain. There’s two sets in thefamily: the thinking Dunns and the drink-ing Dunns, each going their own ways. I’ma drinking Dunn: he’s a thinking Dunn. Butthat didn’t give him any right to shoot me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. So you’ve turnedburglar, have you?

THE BURGLAR. No, Captain: I wouldn’tdisgrace our old sea calling by such a thing. Iam no burglar.

LADY UTTERWORD. What were you do-ing with my diamonds?

GUINNESS. What did you break into thehouse for if you’re no burglar?

RANDALL. Mistook the house for yourown and came in by the wrong window, eh?

THE BURGLAR. Well, it’s no use mytelling you a lie: I can take in most cap-tains, but not Captain Shotover, because hesold himself to the devil in Zanzibar, and candivine water, spot gold, explode a cartridge in

ACT II 177

your pocket with a glance of his eye, and seethe truth hidden in the heart of man. But I’mno burglar.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Are you an honestman?

THE BURGLAR. I don’t set up to be betterthan my fellow-creatures, and never did, asyou well know, Captain. But what I do is in-nocent and pious. I enquire about for houseswhere the right sort of people live. I work iton them same as I worked it here. I breakinto the house; put a few spoons or diamondsin my pocket; make a noise; get caught; andtake up a collection. And you wouldn’t believehow hard it is to get caught when you’re ac-tually trying to. I have knocked over all thechairs in a room without a soul paying any at-tention to me. In the end I have had to walkout and leave the job.

RANDALL. When that happens, do youput back the spoons and diamonds?

THE BURGLAR. Well, I don’t fly in theface of Providence, if that’s what you want toknow.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Guinness, you re-member this man?

GUINNESS. I should think I do, seeing Iwas married to him, the blackguard!

HESIONE. Married to him!LADY UTTERWORD. Guinness!!

178 Heartbreak House

THE BURGLAR. It wasn’t legal. I’ve beenmarried to no end of women. No use comingthat over me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Take him to theforecastle [he flings him to the door with astrength beyond his years].

GUINNESS. I suppose you mean thekitchen. They won’t have him there. Do youexpect servants to keep company with thievesand all sorts?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Land-thieves andwater-thieves are the same flesh and blood.I’ll have no boatswain on my quarter-deck. Offwith you both.

THE BURGLAR. Yes, Captain. [He goesout humbly].

MAZZINI. Will it be safe to have him in thehouse like that?

GUINNESS. Why didn’t you shoot him,sir? If I’d known who he was, I’d have shothim myself. [She goes out].

MRS HUSHABYE. Do sit down, every-body. [She sits down on the sofa].

They all move except Ellie. Mazzini re-sumes his seat. Randall sits down in thewindow-seat near the starboard door, againmaking a pendulum of his poker, and study-ing it as Galileo might have done. Hector sitson his left, in the middle. Mangan, forgotten,sits in the port corner. Lady Utterword takes

ACT II 179

the big chair. Captain Shotover goes into thepantry in deep abstraction. They all look afterhim: and Lady Utterword coughs consciously.

MRS HUSHABYE. So Billy Dunn was poornurse’s little romance. I knew there had beensomebody.

RANDALL. They will fight their battlesover again and enjoy themselves immensely.

LADY UTTERWORD [irritably]. You arenot married; and you know nothing about it,Randall. Hold your tongue.

RANDALL. Tyrant!MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we have had a

very exciting evening. Everything will be ananticlimax after it. We’d better all go to bed.

RANDALL. Another burglar may turn up.MAZZINI. Oh, impossible! I hope not.RANDALL. Why not? There is more than

one burglar in England.MRS HUSHABYE. What do you say, Alf?MANGAN [huffily]. Oh, I don’t matter. I’m

forgotten. The burglar has put my nose out ofjoint. Shove me into a corner and have donewith me.

MRS HUSHABYE [jumping up mis-chievously, and going to him]. Would you likea walk on the heath, Alfred? With me?

ELLIE. Go, Mr Mangan. It will do yougood. Hesione will soothe you.

MRS HUSHABYE [slipping her arm under

180 Heartbreak House

his and pulling him upright]. Come, Alfred.There is a moon: it’s like the night in Tristanand Isolde. [She caresses his arm and drawshim to the port garden door].

MANGAN [writhing but yielding]. Howyou can have the face—the heart—[he breaksdown and is heard sobbing as she takes himout].

LADY UTTERWORD. What an extraordi-nary way to behave! What is the matter withthe man?

ELLIE [in a strangely calm voice, staringinto an imaginary distance]. His heart isbreaking: that is all. [The captain appearsat the pantry door, listening]. It is a curioussensation: the sort of pain that goes merci-fully beyond our powers of feeling. When yourheart is broken, your boats are burned: noth-ing matters any more. It is the end of happi-ness and the beginning of peace.

LADY UTTERWORD [suddenly rising ina rage, to the astonishment of the rest]. Howdare you?

HECTOR. Good heavens! What’s the mat-ter?

RANDALL [in a warning whisper]. Tch—tch-tch! Steady.

ELLIE [surprised and haughty]. I was notaddressing you particularly, Lady Utterword.And I am not accustomed to being asked how

ACT II 181

dare I.LADY UTTERWORD. Of course not. Any-

one can see how badly you have been broughtup.

MAZZINI. Oh, I hope not, Lady Utterword.Really!

LADY UTTERWORD. I know very wellwhat you meant. The impudence!

ELLIE. What on earth do you mean?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [advancing to the

table]. She means that her heart will notbreak. She has been longing all her life forsomeone to break it. At last she has becomeafraid she has none to break.

LADY UTTERWORD [flinging herself onher knees and throwing her arms round him].Papa, don’t say you think I’ve no heart.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising her withgrim tenderness]. If you had no heart howcould you want to have it broken, child?

HECTOR [rising with a bound]. Lady Ut-terword, you are not to be trusted. You havemade a scene [he runs out into the gardenthrough the starboard door].

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! Hector, Hector![she runs out after him].

RANDALL. Only nerves, I assure you. [Herises and follows her, waving the poker in hisagitation]. Ariadne! Ariadne! For God’s sake,be careful. You will—[he is gone].

182 Heartbreak House

MAZZINI [rising]. How distressing! Can Ido anything, I wonder?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [promptly takinghis chair and setting to work at the drawing-board]. No. Go to bed. Good-night.

MAZZINI [bewildered]. Oh! Perhaps youare right.

ELLIE. Good-night, dearest. [She kisseshim].

MAZZINI. Good-night, love. [He makes forthe door, but turns aside to the bookshelves].I’ll just take a book [he takes one]. Good-night.[He goes out, leaving Ellie alone with the cap-tain].

The captain is intent on his drawing. Ellie,standing sentry over his chair, contemplateshim for a moment.

ELLIE. Does nothing ever disturb you,Captain Shotover?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I’ve stood on thebridge for eighteen hours in a typhoon. Lifehere is stormier; but I can stand it.

ELLIE. Do you think I ought to marry MrMangan?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [never looking up].One rock is as good as another to be wreckedon.

ELLIE. I am not in love with him.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Who said you

were?

ACT II 183

ELLIE. You are not surprised?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Surprised! At my

age!ELLIE. It seems to me quite fair. He wants

me for one thing: I want him for another.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Money?ELLIE. Yes.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Well, one turns

the cheek: the other kisses it. One providesthe cash: the other spends it.

ELLIE. Who will have the best of the bar-gain, I wonder?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You. These fel-lows live in an office all day. You will haveto put up with him from dinner to breakfast;but you will both be asleep most of that time.All day you will be quit of him; and you willbe shopping with his money. If that is toomuch for you, marry a seafaring man: you willbe bothered with him only three weeks in theyear, perhaps.

ELLIE. That would be best of all, I sup-pose.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s a dangerousthing to be married right up to the hilt, likemy daughter’s husband. The man is at homeall day, like a damned soul in hell.

ELLIE. I never thought of that before.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. If you’re marrying

for business, you can’t be too businesslike.

184 Heartbreak House

ELLIE. Why do women always want otherwomen’s husbands?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why do horse-thieves prefer a horse that is broken-in to onethat is wild?

ELLIE [with a short laugh]. I suppose so.What a vile world it is!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It doesn’t concernme. I’m nearly out of it.

ELLIE. And I’m only just beginning.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes; so look

ahead.ELLIE. Well, I think I am being very pru-

dent.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I didn’t say pru-

dent. I said look ahead.ELLIE. What’s the difference?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s prudent to

gain the whole world and lose your own soul.But don’t forget that your soul sticks to youif you stick to it; but the world has a way ofslipping through your fingers.

ELLIE [wearily, leaving him and begin-ning to wander restlessly about the room]. I’msorry, Captain Shotover; but it’s no use talk-ing like that to me. Old-fashioned people areno use to me. Old-fashioned people think youcan have a soul without money. They thinkthe less money you have, the more soul youhave. Young people nowadays know better. A

ACT II 185

soul is a very expensive thing to keep: muchmore so than a motor car.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is it? How muchdoes your soul eat?

ELLIE. Oh, a lot. It eats music and pic-tures and books and mountains and lakes andbeautiful things to wear and nice people tobe with. In this country you can’t have themwithout lots of money: that is why our soulsare so horribly starved.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Mangan’s soullives on pig’s food.

ELLIE. Yes: money is thrown away onhim. I suppose his soul was starved when hewas young. But it will not be thrown away onme. It is just because I want to save my soulthat I am marrying for money. All the womenwho are not fools do.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are otherways of getting money. Why don’t you stealit?

ELLIE. Because I don’t want to go toprison.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is that the onlyreason? Are you quite sure honesty has noth-ing to do with it?

ELLIE. Oh, you are very very old-fashioned, Captain. Does any modern girl be-lieve that the legal and illegal ways of gettingmoney are the honest and dishonest ways?

186 Heartbreak House

Mangan robbed my father and my father’sfriends. I should rob all the money back fromMangan if the police would let me. As theywon’t, I must get it back by marrying him.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can’t argue: I’mtoo old: my mind is made up and finished. AllI can tell you is that, old-fashioned or new-fashioned, if you sell yourself, you deal yoursoul a blow that all the books and picturesand concerts and scenery in the world won’theal [he gets up suddenly and makes for thepantry].

ELLIE [running after him and seizing himby the sleeve]. Then why did you sell yourselfto the devil in Zanzibar?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping, star-tled]. What?

ELLIE. You shall not run away before youanswer. I have found out that trick of yours.If you sold yourself, why shouldn’t I?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I had to deal withmen so degraded that they wouldn’t obey meunless I swore at them and kicked them andbeat them with my fists. Foolish people tookyoung thieves off the streets; flung them intoa training ship where they were taught to fearthe cane instead of fearing God; and thoughtthey’d made men and sailors of them by pri-vate subscription. I tricked these thieves intobelieving I’d sold myself to the devil. It saved

ACT II 187

my soul from the kicking and swearing thatwas damning me by inches.

ELLIE [releasing him]. I shall pretendto sell myself to Boss Mangan to save mysoul from the poverty that is damning me byinches.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Riches will damnyou ten times deeper. Riches won’t save evenyour body.

ELLIE. Old-fashioned again. We knownow that the soul is the body, and the bodythe soul. They tell us they are different be-cause they want to persuade us that we cankeep our souls if we let them make slaves ofour bodies. I am afraid you are no use to me,Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What did you ex-pect? A Savior, eh? Are you old-fashionedenough to believe in that?

ELLIE. No. But I thought you were verywise, and might help me. Now I have foundyou out. You pretend to be busy, and think offine things to say, and run in and out to sur-prise people by saying them, and get away be-fore they can answer you.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It confuses me tobe answered. It discourages me. I cannot bearmen and women. I have to run away. I mustrun away now [he tries to].

ELLIE [again seizing his arm]. You shall

188 Heartbreak House

not run away from me. I can hypnotize you.You are the only person in the house I can saywhat I like to. I know you are fond of me. Sitdown. [She draws him to the sofa].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [yielding]. Takecare: I am in my dotage. Old men are danger-ous: it doesn’t matter to them what is going tohappen to the world.

They sit side by side on the sofa. She leansaffectionately against him with her head onhis shoulder and her eyes half closed.

ELLIE [dreamily]. I should have thoughtnothing else mattered to old men. They can’tbe very interested in what is going to happento themselves.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A man’s interestin the world is only the overflow from his in-terest in himself. When you are a child yourvessel is not yet full; so you care for nothingbut your own affairs. When you grow up, yourvessel overflows; and you are a politician, aphilosopher, or an explorer and adventurer. Inold age the vessel dries up: there is no over-flow: you are a child again. I can give you thememories of my ancient wisdom: mere scrapsand leavings; but I no longer really care foranything but my own little wants and hobbies.I sit here working out my old ideas as a meansof destroying my fellow-creatures. I see mydaughters and their men living foolish lives

ACT II 189

of romance and sentiment and snobbery. Isee you, the younger generation, turning fromtheir romance and sentiment and snobbery tomoney and comfort and hard common sense.I was ten times happier on the bridge in thetyphoon, or frozen into Arctic ice for monthsin darkness, than you or they have ever been.You are looking for a rich husband. At yourage I looked for hardship, danger, horror, anddeath, that I might feel the life in me more in-tensely. I did not let the fear of death governmy life; and my reward was, I had my life. Youare going to let the fear of poverty govern yourlife; and your reward will be that you will eat,but you will not live.

ELLIE [sitting up impatiently]. But whatcan I do? I am not a sea captain: I can’tstand on bridges in typhoons, or go slaughter-ing seals and whales in Greenland’s icy moun-tains. They won’t let women be captains. Doyou want me to be a stewardess?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are worselives. The stewardesses could come ashore ifthey liked; but they sail and sail and sail.

ELLIE. What could they do ashore butmarry for money? I don’t want to be a stew-ardess: I am too bad a sailor. Think of some-thing else for me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can’t think solong and continuously. I am too old. I must

190 Heartbreak House

go in and out. [He tries to rise].ELLIE [pulling him back]. You shall not.

You are happy here, aren’t you?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I tell you it’s dan-

gerous to keep me. I can’t keep awake andalert.

ELLIE. What do you run away for? Tosleep?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. To get a glassof rum.

ELLIE [frightfully disillusioned]. Is thatit? How disgusting! Do you like being drunk?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No: I dread beingdrunk more than anything in the world. Tobe drunk means to have dreams; to go soft;to be easily pleased and deceived; to fall intothe clutches of women. Drink does that foryou when you are young. But when you areold: very very old, like me, the dreams comeby themselves. You don’t know how terriblethat is: you are young: you sleep at nightonly, and sleep soundly. But later on youwill sleep in the afternoon. Later still youwill sleep even in the morning; and you willawake tired, tired of life. You will never befree from dozing and dreams; the dreams willsteal upon your work every ten minutes un-less you can awaken yourself with rum. Idrink now to keep sober; but the dreams areconquering: rum is not what it was: I have

ACT II 191

had ten glasses since you came; and it mightbe so much water. Go get me another: Guin-ness knows where it is. You had better see foryourself the horror of an old man drinking.

ELLIE. You shall not drink. Dream. I likeyou to dream. You must never be in the realworld when we talk together.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I am too weary toresist, or too weak. I am in my second child-hood. I do not see you as you really are. I can’tremember what I really am. I feel nothingbut the accursed happiness I have dreaded allmy life long: the happiness that comes as lifegoes, the happiness of yielding and dreaminginstead of resisting and doing, the sweetnessof the fruit that is going rotten.

ELLIE. You dread it almost as much as Iused to dread losing my dreams and having tofight and do things. But that is all over for me:my dreams are dashed to pieces. I should liketo marry a very old, very rich man. I shouldlike to marry you. I had much rather marryyou than marry Mangan. Are you very rich?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. Living fromhand to mouth. And I have a wife somewherein Jamaica: a black one. My first wife. Unlessshe’s dead.

ELLIE. What a pity! I feel so happy withyou. [She takes his hand, almost uncon-sciously, and pats it]. I thought I should never

192 Heartbreak House

feel happy again.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why?ELLIE. Don’t you know?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No.ELLIE. Heartbreak. I fell in love with Hec-

tor, and didn’t know he was married.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Heartbreak? Are

you one of those who are so sufficient to them-selves that they are only happy when they arestripped of everything, even of hope?

ELLIE [gripping the hand]. It seems so;for I feel now as if there was nothing I couldnot do, because I want nothing.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That’s the onlyreal strength. That’s genius. That’s betterthan rum.

ELLIE [throwing away his hand]. Rum!Why did you spoil it?

Hector and Randall come in from the gar-den through the starboard door.

HECTOR. I beg your pardon. We did notknow there was anyone here.

ELLIE [rising]. That means that you wantto tell Mr Randall the story about the tiger.Come, Captain: I want to talk to my father;and you had better come with me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [rising]. Non-sense! the man is in bed.

ELLIE. Aha! I’ve caught you. My real fa-ther has gone to bed; but the father you gave

ACT II 193

me is in the kitchen. You knew quite well allalong. Come. [She draws him out into the gar-den with her through the port door].

HECTOR. That’s an extraordinary girl.She has the Ancient Mariner on a string likea Pekinese dog.

RANDALL. Now that they have gone, shallwe have a friendly chat?

HECTOR. You are in what is supposed tobe my house. I am at your disposal.

Hector sits down in the draughtsman’schair, turning it to face Randall, who remainsstanding, leaning at his ease against the car-penter’s bench.

RANDALL. I take it that we may be quitefrank. I mean about Lady Utterword.

HECTOR. You may. I have nothing to befrank about. I never met her until this after-noon.

RANDALL [straightening up]. What! Butyou are her sister’s husband.

HECTOR. Well, if you come to that, youare her husband’s brother.

RANDALL. But you seem to be on intimateterms with her.

HECTOR. So do you.RANDALL. Yes: but I am on intimate

terms with her. I have known her for years.HECTOR. It took her years to get to the

same point with you that she got to with me

194 Heartbreak House

in five minutes, it seems.RANDALL [vexed]. Really, Ariadne is the

limit [he moves away huffishly towards thewindows].

HECTOR [coolly]. She is, as I remarked toHesione, a very enterprising woman.

RANDALL [returning, much troubled].You see, Hushabye, you are what women con-sider a good-looking man.

HECTOR. I cultivated that appearance inthe days of my vanity; and Hesione insistson my keeping it up. She makes me wearthese ridiculous things [indicating his Arabcostume] because she thinks me absurd inevening dress.

RANDALL. Still, you do keep it up, oldchap. Now, I assure you I have not an atomof jealousy in my disposition

HECTOR. The question would seem to berather whether your brother has any touch ofthat sort.

RANDALL. What! Hastings! Oh, don’ttrouble about Hastings. He has the gift of be-ing able to work sixteen hours a day at thedullest detail, and actually likes it. That getshim to the top wherever he goes. As long asAriadne takes care that he is fed regularly, heis only too thankful to anyone who will keepher in good humor for him.

HECTOR. And as she has all the Shotover

ACT II 195

fascination, there is plenty of competition forthe job, eh?

RANDALL [angrily]. She encouragesthem. Her conduct is perfectly scandalous.I assure you, my dear fellow, I haven’t anatom of jealousy in my composition; but shemakes herself the talk of every place she goesto by her thoughtlessness. It’s nothing more:she doesn’t really care for the men she keepshanging about her; but how is the world toknow that? It’s not fair to Hastings. It’s notfair to me.

HECTOR. Her theory is that her conductis so correct

RANDALL. Correct! She does nothing butmake scenes from morning till night. You becareful, old chap. She will get you into trouble:that is, she would if she really cared for you.

HECTOR. Doesn’t she?RANDALL. Not a scrap. She may want

your scalp to add to her collection; but her trueaffection has been engaged years ago. You hadreally better be careful.

HECTOR. Do you suffer much from thisjealousy?

RANDALL. Jealousy! I jealous! My dearfellow, haven’t I told you that there is not anatom of—

HECTOR. Yes. And Lady Utterword toldme she never made scenes. Well, don’t waste

196 Heartbreak House

your jealousy on my moustache. Never wastejealousy on a real man: it is the imaginaryhero that supplants us all in the long run. Be-sides, jealousy does not belong to your easyman-of-the-world pose, which you carry sowell in other respects.

RANDALL. Really, Hushabye, I think aman may be allowed to be a gentleman with-out being accused of posing.

HECTOR. It is a pose like any other. Inthis house we know all the poses: our game isto find out the man under the pose. The manunder your pose is apparently Ellie’s favorite,Othello.

RANDALL. Some of your games in thishouse are damned annoying, let me tell you.

HECTOR. Yes: I have been their victim formany years. I used to writhe under them atfirst; but I became accustomed to them. Atlast I learned to play them.

RANDALL. If it’s all the same to you I hadrather you didn’t play them on me. You ev-idently don’t quite understand my character,or my notions of good form.

HECTOR. Is it your notion of good form togive away Lady Utterword?

RANDALL [a childishly plaintive notebreaking into his huff ]. I have not said a wordagainst Lady Utterword. This is just the con-spiracy over again.

ACT II 197

HECTOR. What conspiracy?RANDALL. You know very well, sir. A con-

spiracy to make me out to be pettish and jeal-ous and childish and everything I am not. Ev-eryone knows I am just the opposite.

HECTOR [rising]. Something in the air ofthe house has upset you. It often does havethat effect. [He goes to the garden door andcalls Lady Utterword with commanding em-phasis]. Ariadne!

LADY UTTERWORD [at some distance].Yes.

RANDALL. What are you calling her for?I want to speak—

LADY UTTERWORD [arriving breath-less]. Yes. You really are a terribly command-ing person. What’s the matter?

HECTOR. I do not know how to manageyour friend Randall. No doubt you do.

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall: have youbeen making yourself ridiculous, as usual? Ican see it in your face. Really, you are themost pettish creature.

RANDALL. You know quite well, Ariadne,that I have not an ounce of pettishness inmy disposition. I have made myself perfectlypleasant here. I have remained absolutelycool and imperturbable in the face of a bur-glar. Imperturbability is almost too strong apoint of mine. But [putting his foot down with

198 Heartbreak House

a stamp, and walking angrily up and downthe room] I insist on being treated with a cer-tain consideration. I will not allow Hushabyeto take liberties with me. I will not stand yourencouraging people as you do.

HECTOR. The man has a rooted delusionthat he is your husband.

LADY UTTERWORD. I know. He is jeal-ous. As if he had any right to be! He compro-mises me everywhere. He makes scenes allover the place. Randall: I will not allow it.I simply will not allow it. You had no right todiscuss me with Hector. I will not be discussedby men.

HECTOR. Be reasonable, Ariadne. Yourfatal gift of beauty forces men to discuss you.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh indeed! whatabout your fatal gift of beauty?

HECTOR. How can I help it?LADY UTTERWORD. You could cut off

your moustache: I can’t cut off my nose. I getmy whole life messed up with people fallingin love with me. And then Randall says I runafter men.

RANDALL. I—LADY UTTERWORD. Yes you do: you said

it just now. Why can’t you think of somethingelse than women? Napoleon was quite rightwhen he said that women are the occupationof the idle man. Well, if ever there was an idle

ACT II 199

man on earth, his name is Randall Utterword.RANDALL. Ariad—LADY UTTERWORD [overwhelming him

with a torrent of words]. Oh yes you are: it’sno use denying it. What have you ever done?What good are you? You are as much troublein the house as a child of three. You couldn’tlive without your valet.

RANDALL. This is—LADY UTTERWORD. Laziness! You are

laziness incarnate. You are selfishness it-self. You are the most uninteresting man onearth. You can’t even gossip about anythingbut yourself and your grievances and your ail-ments and the people who have offended you.[Turning to Hector]. Do you know what theycall him, Hector?

HECTOR. Please don’t tell me.RANDALL. I’ll not stand it—LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the Rotter:

that is his name in good society.RANDALL [shouting]. I’ll not bear it, I tell

you. Will you listen to me, you infernal—[hechokes].

LADY UTTERWORD. Well: go on. Whatwere you going to call me? An infernal what?Which unpleasant animal is it to be this time?

RANDALL [foaming]. There is no animalin the world so hateful as a woman can be.You are a maddening devil. Hushabye, you

200 Heartbreak House

will not believe me when I tell you that I haveloved this demon all my life; but God knows Ihave paid for it [he sits down in the draughts-man’s chair, weeping].

LADY UTTERWORD [standing over himwith triumphant contempt]. Cry-baby!

HECTOR [gravely, coming to him]. Myfriend, the Shotover sisters have two strangepowers over men. They can make them love;and they can make them cry. Thank yourstars that you are not married to one of them.

LADY UTTERWORD [haughtily]. Andpray, Hector—

HECTOR [suddenly catching her round theshoulders: swinging her right round him andaway from Randall: and gripping her throatwith the other hand]. Ariadne, if you attemptto start on me, I’ll choke you: do you hear?The cat-and-mouse game with the other sexis a good game; but I can play your head off atit. [He throws her, not at all gently, into the bigchair, and proceeds, less fiercely but firmly]. Itis true that Napoleon said that woman is theoccupation of the idle man. But he added thatshe is the relaxation of the warrior. Well, I amthe warrior. So take care.

LADY UTTERWORD [not in the least putout, and rather pleased by his violence]. Mydear Hector, I have only done what you askedme to do.

ACT II 201

HECTOR. How do you make that out,pray?

LADY UTTERWORD. You called me in tomanage Randall, didn’t you? You said youcouldn’t manage him yourself.

HECTOR. Well, what if I did? I did not askyou to drive the man mad.

LADY UTTERWORD. He isn’t mad. That’sthe way to manage him. If you were a mother,you’d understand.

HECTOR. Mother! What are you up tonow?

LADY UTTERWORD. It’s quite simple.When the children got nerves and werenaughty, I smacked them just enough to givethem a good cry and a healthy nervous shock.They went to sleep and were quite good after-wards. Well, I can’t smack Randall: he is toobig; so when he gets nerves and is naughty, Ijust rag him till he cries. He will be all rightnow. Look: he is half asleep already [which isquite true].

RANDALL [waking up indignantly]. I’mnot. You are most cruel, Ariadne. [Sentimen-tally]. But I suppose I must forgive you, asusual [he checks himself in the act of yawn-ing].

LADY UTTERWORD [to Hector]. Is theexplanation satisfactory, dread warrior?

HECTOR. Some day I shall kill you, if you

202 Heartbreak House

go too far. I thought you were a fool.LADY UTTERWORD [laughing]. Every-

body does, at first. But I am not such a foolas I look. [She rises complacently]. Now, Ran-dall, go to bed. You will be a good boy in themorning.

RANDALL [only very faintly rebellious].I’ll go to bed when I like. It isn’t ten yet.

LADY UTTERWORD. It is long past ten.See that he goes to bed at once, Hector. [Shegoes into the garden].

HECTOR. Is there any slavery on earthviler than this slavery of men to women?

RANDALL [rising resolutely]. I’ll notspeak to her tomorrow. I’ll not speak to her foranother week. I’ll give her such a lesson. I’llgo straight to bed without bidding her good-night. [He makes for the door leading to thehall].

HECTOR. You are under a spell, man. OldShotover sold himself to the devil in Zanz-ibar. The devil gave him a black witch fora wife; and these two demon daughters aretheir mystical progeny. I am tied to Hesione’sapron-string; but I’m her husband; and if I didgo stark staring mad about her, at least webecame man and wife. But why should youlet yourself be dragged about and beaten byAriadne as a toy donkey is dragged about andbeaten by a child? What do you get by it? Are

ACT II 203

you her lover?RANDALL. You must not misunderstand

me. In a higher sense—in a Platonic sense—HECTOR. Psha! Platonic sense! She

makes you her servant; and when pay-daycomes round, she bilks you: that is what youmean.

RANDALL [feebly]. Well, if I don’t mind, Idon’t see what business it is of yours. Besides,I tell you I am going to punish her. You shallsee: I know how to deal with women. I’m re-ally very sleepy. Say good-night to Mrs Hush-abye for me, will you, like a good chap. Good-night. [He hurries out].

HECTOR. Poor wretch! Oh women! wom-en! women! [He lifts his fists in invocation toheaven]. Fall. Fall and crush. [He goes outinto the garden].

204 Heartbreak House

ACT III

In the garden, Hector, as he comes out throughthe glass door of the poop, finds Lady Utter-word lying voluptuously in the hammock onthe east side of the flagstaff, in the circle oflight cast by the electric arc, which is like amoon in its opal globe. Beneath the head ofthe hammock, a campstool. On the other sideof the flagstaff, on the long garden seat, Cap-tain Shotover is asleep, with Ellie beside him,leaning affectionately against him on his righthand. On his left is a deck chair. Behind themin the gloom, Hesione is strolling about withMangan. It is a fine still night, moonless.

LADY UTTERWORD. What a lovely night!It seems made for us.

HECTOR. The night takes no interest inus. What are we to the night? [He sits downmoodily in the deck chair].

ELLIE [dreamily, nestling against the cap-tain]. Its beauty soaks into my nerves. In thenight there is peace for the old and hope for

205

206 Heartbreak House

the young.HECTOR. Is that remark your own?ELLIE. No. Only the last thing the captain

said before he went to sleep.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I’m not asleep.HECTOR. Randall is. Also Mr Mazzini

Dunn. Mangan, too, probably.MANGAN. No.HECTOR. Oh, you are there. I thought He-

sione would have sent you to bed by this time.MRS HUSHABYE [coming to the back of

the garden seat, into the light, with Mangan].I think I shall. He keeps telling me he has apresentiment that he is going to die. I nevermet a man so greedy for sympathy.

MANGAN [plaintively]. But I have a pre-sentiment. I really have. And you wouldn’tlisten.

MRS HUSHABYE. I was listening forsomething else. There was a sort of splendiddrumming in the sky. Did none of you hear it?It came from a distance and then died away.

MANGAN. I tell you it was a train.MRS HUSHABYE. And I tell you, Alf,

there is no train at this hour. The last is nineforty-five.

MANGAN. But a goods train.MRS HUSHABYE. Not on our little line.

They tack a truck on to the passenger train.What can it have been, Hector?

ACT III 207

HECTOR. Heaven’s threatening growlof disgust at us useless futile creatures.[Fiercely]. I tell you, one of two things musthappen. Either out of that darkness some newcreation will come to supplant us as we havesupplanted the animals, or the heavens willfall in thunder and destroy us.

LADY UTTERWORD [in a cool instructivemanner, wallowing comfortably in her ham-mock]. We have not supplanted the animals,Hector. Why do you ask heaven to destroy thishouse, which could be made quite comfortableif Hesione had any notion of how to live? Don’tyou know what is wrong with it?

HECTOR. We are wrong with it. There isno sense in us. We are useless, dangerous, andought to be abolished.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense! Hast-ings told me the very first day he came here,nearly twenty-four years ago, what is wrongwith the house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What! The num-skull said there was something wrong withmy house!

LADY UTTERWORD. I said Hastings saidit; and he is not in the least a numskull.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What’s wrongwith my house?

LADY UTTERWORD. Just what is wrongwith a ship, papa. Wasn’t it clever of Hastings

208 Heartbreak House

to see that?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The man’s a fool.

There’s nothing wrong with a ship.LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, there is.MRS HUSHABYE. But what is it? Don’t

be aggravating, Addy.LADY UTTERWORD. Guess.HECTOR. Demons. Daughters of the

witch of Zanzibar. Demons.LADY UTTERWORD. Not a bit. I assure

you, all this house needs to make it a sensible,healthy, pleasant house, with good appetitesand sound sleep in it, is horses.

MRS HUSHABYE. Horses! What rubbish!LADY UTTERWORD. Yes: horses. Why

have we never been able to let this house? Be-cause there are no proper stables. Go any-where in England where there are natural,wholesome, contented, and really nice Englishpeople; and what do you always find? That thestables are the real centre of the household;and that if any visitor wants to play the pianothe whole room has to be upset before it can beopened, there are so many things piled on it. Inever lived until I learned to ride; and I shallnever ride really well because I didn’t begin asa child. There are only two classes in good so-ciety in England: the equestrian classes andthe neurotic classes. It isn’t mere convention:everybody can see that the people who hunt

ACT III 209

are the right people and the people who don’tare the wrong ones.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There is sometruth in this. My ship made a man of me; anda ship is the horse of the sea.

LADY UTTERWORD. Exactly how Hast-ings explained your being a gentleman.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Not bad for anumskull. Bring the man here with you nexttime: I must talk to him.

LADY UTTERWORD. Why is Randallsuch an obvious rotter? He is well bred; hehas been at a public school and a university;he has been in the Foreign Office; he knowsthe best people and has lived all his life amongthem. Why is he so unsatisfactory, so con-temptible? Why can’t he get a valet to staywith him longer than a few months? Justbecause he is too lazy and pleasure-loving tohunt and shoot. He strums the piano, andsketches, and runs after married women, andreads literary books and poems. He actuallyplays the flute; but I never let him bring itinto my house. If he would only—[she is in-terrupted by the melancholy strains of a flutecoming from an open window above. Sheraises herself indignantly in the hammock].Randall, you have not gone to bed. Have youbeen listening? [The flute replies pertly]. Howvulgar! Go to bed instantly, Randall: how dare

210 Heartbreak House

you? [The window is slammed down. She sub-sides]. How can anyone care for such a crea-ture!

MRS HUSHABYE. Addy: do you think El-lie ought to marry poor Alfred merely for hismoney?

MANGAN [much alarmed]. What’s that?Mrs Hushabye, are my affairs to be discussedlike this before everybody?

LADY UTTERWORD. I don’t think Ran-dall is listening now.

MANGAN. Everybody is listening. It isn’tright.

MRS HUSHABYE. But in the dark, whatdoes it matter? Ellie doesn’t mind. Do you,Ellie?

ELLIE. Not in the least. What is youropinion, Lady Utterword? You have so muchgood sense.

MANGAN. But it isn’t right. It— [MrsHushabye puts her hand on his mouth]. Oh,very well.

LADY UTTERWORD. How much moneyhave you, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN. Really—No: I can’t stand this.LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense, Mr Man-

gan! It all turns on your income, doesn’t it?MANGAN. Well, if you come to that, how

much money has she?ELLIE. None.

ACT III 211

LADY UTTERWORD. You are answered,Mr Mangan. And now, as you have made MissDunn throw her cards on the table, you cannotrefuse to show your own.

MRS HUSHABYE. Come, Alf! out with it!How much?

MANGAN [baited out of all prudence].Well, if you want to know, I have no moneyand never had any.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, you mustn’t tellnaughty stories.

MANGAN. I’m not telling you stories. I’mtelling you the raw truth.

LADY UTTERWORD. Then what do youlive on, Mr Mangan?

MANGAN. Travelling expenses. And a tri-fle of commission.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What more haveany of us but travelling expenses for our life’sjourney?

MRS HUSHABYE. But you have factoriesand capital and things?

MANGAN. People think I have. Peoplethink I’m an industrial Napoleon. That’s whyMiss Ellie wants to marry me. But I tell you Ihave nothing.

ELLIE. Do you mean that the factories arelike Marcus’s tigers? That they don’t exist?

MANGAN. They exist all right enough.But they’re not mine. They belong to syndi-

212 Heartbreak House

cates and shareholders and all sorts of lazygood-for-nothing capitalists. I get money fromsuch people to start the factories. I find peo-ple like Miss Dunn’s father to work them, andkeep a tight hand so as to make them pay. Ofcourse I make them keep me going pretty well;but it’s a dog’s life; and I don’t own anything.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, Alfred, you aremaking a poor mouth of it to get out of marry-ing Ellie.

MANGAN. I’m telling the truth about mymoney for the first time in my life; and it’s thefirst time my word has ever been doubted.

LADY UTTERWORD. How sad! Why don’tyou go in for politics, Mr Mangan?

MANGAN. Go in for politics! Where haveyou been living? I am in politics.

LADY UTTERWORD. I’m sure I beg yourpardon. I never heard of you.

MANGAN. Let me tell you, Lady Utter-word, that the Prime Minister of this coun-try asked me to join the Government withouteven going through the nonsense of an elec-tion, as the dictator of a great public depart-ment.

LADY UTTERWORD. As a Conservativeor a Liberal?

MANGAN. No such nonsense. As a practi-cal business man. [They all burst out laugh-ing]. What are you all laughing at?

ACT III 213

MRS HUSHARYE. Oh, Alfred, Alfred!ELLIE. You! who have to get my father to

do everything for you!MRS HUSHABYE. You! who are afraid of

your own workmen!HECTOR. You! with whom three women

have been playing cat and mouse all theevening!

LADY UTTERWORD. You must havegiven an immense sum to the party funds, MrMangan.

MANGAN. Not a penny out of my ownpocket. The syndicate found the money: theyknew how useful I should be to them in theGovernment.

LADY UTTERWORD. This is most inter-esting and unexpected, Mr Mangan. Andwhat have your administrative achievementsbeen, so far?

MANGAN. Achievements? Well, I don’tknow what you call achievements; but I’vejolly well put a stop to the games of the otherfellows in the other departments. Every manof them thought he was going to save thecountry all by himself, and do me out of thecredit and out of my chance of a title. I tookgood care that if they wouldn’t let me do itthey shouldn’t do it themselves either. I maynot know anything about my own machin-ery; but I know how to stick a ramrod into

214 Heartbreak House

the other fellow’s. And now they all look thebiggest fools going.

HECTOR. And in heaven’s name, what doyou look like?

MANGAN. I look like the fellow that wastoo clever for all the others, don’t I? If thatisn’t a triumph of practical business, what is?

HECTOR. Is this England, or is it a mad-house?

LADY UTTERWORD. Do you expect tosave the country, Mr Mangan?

MANGAN. Well, who else will? Will yourMr Randall save it?

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the rotter!Certainly not.

MANGAN. Will your brother-in-law save itwith his moustache and his fine talk?

HECTOR. Yes, if they will let me.MANGAN [sneering]. Ah! Will they let

you?HECTOR. No. They prefer you.MANGAN. Very well then, as you’re in a

world where I’m appreciated and you’re not,you’d best be civil to me, hadn’t you? Who elseis there but me?

LADY UTTERWORD. There is Hastings.Get rid of your ridiculous sham democracy;and give Hastings the necessary powers, anda good supply of bamboo to bring the Britishnative to his senses: he will save the country

ACT III 215

with the greatest ease.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It had better be

lost. Any fool can govern with a stick in hishand. I could govern that way. It is not God’sway. The man is a numskull.

LADY UTTERWORD. The man is worthall of you rolled into one. What do you say,Miss Dunn?

ELLIE. I think my father would do verywell if people did not put upon him and cheathim and despise him because he is so good.

MANGAN [contemptuously]. I think Isee Mazzini Dunn getting into parliament orpushing his way into the Government. We’venot come to that yet, thank God! What do yousay, Mrs Hushabye?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, I say it mattersvery little which of you governs the countryso long as we govern you.

HECTOR. We? Who is we, pray?MRS HUSHABYE. The devil’s grand-

daughters, dear. The lovely women.HECTOR [raising his hands as before].

Fall, I say, and deliver us from the lures ofSatan!

ELLIE. There seems to be nothing realin the world except my father and Shake-speare. Marcus’s tigers are false; Mr Man-gan’s millions are false; there is nothing reallystrong and true about Hesione but her beau-

216 Heartbreak House

tiful black hair; and Lady Utterword’s is toopretty to be real. The one thing that was leftto me was the Captain’s seventh degree of con-centration; and that turns out to be—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Rum.LADY UTTERWORD [placidly]. A good

deal of my hair is quite genuine. The Duchessof Dithering offered me fifty guineas for this[touching her forehead] under the impressionthat it was a transformation; but it is all nat-ural except the color.

MANGAN [wildly]. Look here: I’m goingto take off all my clothes [he begins tearing offhis coat].

[In cons-ternation]

LADY UTTERWORD. Mr. Mangan!CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What’s that?HECTOR. Ha! Ha! Do. Do.ELLIE. Please don’t.MRS HUSHABYE [catching his arm and

stopping him]. Alfred, for shame! Are youmad?

MANGAN. Shame! What shame is therein this house? Let’s all strip stark naked.We may as well do the thing thoroughlywhen we’re about it. We’ve stripped ourselvesmorally naked: well, let us strip ourselvesphysically naked as well, and see how we likeit. I tell you I can’t bear this. I was brought

ACT III 217

up to be respectable. I don’t mind the womendyeing their hair and the men drinking: it’shuman nature. But it’s not human nature totell everybody about it. Every time one of youopens your mouth I go like this [he cowers asif to avoid a missile], afraid of what will comenext. How are we to have any self-respect ifwe don’t keep it up that we’re better than wereally are?

LADY UTTERWORD. I quite sympathizewith you, Mr Mangan. I have been throughit all; and I know by experience that menand women are delicate plants and must becultivated under glass. Our family habit ofthrowing stones in all directions and lettingthe air in is not only unbearably rude, but pos-itively dangerous. Still, there is no use catch-ing physical colds as well as moral ones; soplease keep your clothes on.

MANGAN. I’ll do as I like: not what youtell me. Am I a child or a grown man? I won’tstand this mothering tyranny. I’ll go back tothe city, where I’m respected and made muchof.

MRS HUSHABYE. Goodbye, Alf. Thinkof us sometimes in the city. Think of Ellie’syouth!

ELLIE. Think of Hesione’s eyes and hair!CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Think of this gar-

den in which you are not a dog barking to keep

218 Heartbreak House

the truth out!HECTOR. Think of Lady Utterword’s

beauty! her good sense! her style!LADY UTTERWORD. Flatterer. Think,

Mr. Mangan, whether you can really do anybetter for yourself elsewhere: that is the es-sential point, isn’t it?

MANGAN [surrendering]. All right: allright. I’m done. Have it your own way. Onlylet me alone. I don’t know whether I’m on myhead or my heels when you all start on me likethis. I’ll stay. I’ll marry her. I’ll do anythingfor a quiet life. Are you satisfied now?

ELLIE. No. I never really intended tomake you marry me, Mr Mangan. Never inthe depths of my soul. I only wanted to feelmy strength: to know that you could not es-cape if I chose to take you.

MANGAN [indignantly]. What! Do youmean to say you are going to throw me overafter my acting so handsome?

LADY UTTERWORD. I should not be toohasty, Miss Dunn. You can throw Mr Manganover at any time up to the last moment. Veryfew men in his position go bankrupt. You canlive very comfortably on his reputation for im-mense wealth.

ELLIE. I cannot commit bigamy, Lady Ut-terword.

ACT III 219

[Exclaiming alto-gether]

MRS HUSHABYE. Bigamy! What-ever on earth areyou talking about,Ellie?

LADY UTTERWORD. Bigamy! What doyou mean, MissDunn?

MANGAN. Bigamy! Do youmean to say you’remarried already?

HECTOR. Bigamy! This issome enigma.

ELLIE. Only half an hour ago I becameCaptain Shotover’s white wife.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie! What nonsense!Where?

ELLIE. In heaven, where all true mar-riages are made.

LADY UTTERWORD. Really, Miss Dunn!Really, papa!

MANGAN. He told me I was too old! Andhim a mummy!

HECTOR [quoting Shelley].

“Their altar the grassy earth outspreadsAnd their priest the muttering wind.”

ELLIE. Yes: I, Ellie Dunn, give my brokenheart and my strong sound soul to its natu-

220 Heartbreak House

ral captain, my spiritual husband and secondfather.

She draws the captain’s arm through hers,and pats his hand. The captain remains fastasleep.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, that’s very cleverof you, pettikins. Very clever. Alfred, youcould never have lived up to Ellie. You mustbe content with a little share of me.

MANGAN [snifflng and wiping his eyes]. Itisn’t kind—[his emotion chokes him].

LADY UTTERWORD. You are well out ofit, Mr Mangan. Miss Dunn is the most con-ceited young woman I have met since I cameback to England.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Ellie isn’t con-ceited. Are you, pettikins?

ELLIE. I know my strength now, Hesione.MANGAN. Brazen, I call you. Brazen.MRS HUSHABYE. Tut, tut, Alfred: don’t

be rude. Don’t you feel how lovely this mar-riage night is, made in heaven? Aren’t youhappy, you and Hector? Open your eyes: Addyand Ellie look beautiful enough to please themost fastidious man: we live and love andhave not a care in the world. We women havemanaged all that for you. Why in the name ofcommon sense do you go on as if you were twomiserable wretches?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I tell you happi-

ACT III 221

ness is no good. You can be happy when youare only half alive. I am happier now I am halfdead than ever I was in my prime. But thereis no blessing on my happiness.

ELLIE [her face lighting up]. Life with ablessing! that is what I want. Now I know thereal reason why I couldn’t marry Mr Mangan:there would be no blessing on our marriage.There is a blessing on my broken heart. Thereis a blessing on your beauty, Hesione. Thereis a blessing on your father’s spirit. Even onthe lies of Marcus there is a blessing; but onMr Mangan’s money there is none.

MANGAN. I don’t understand a word ofthat.

ELLIE. Neither do I. But I know it meanssomething.

MANGAN. Don’t say there was any diffi-culty about the blessing. I was ready to get abishop to marry us.

MRS HUSHABYE. Isn’t he a fool, pet-tikins?

HECTOR [fiercely]. Do not scorn the man.We are all fools.

Mazzini, in pyjamas and a richly coloredsilk dressing gown, comes from the house, onLady Utterword’s side.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! here comes theonly man who ever resisted me. What’s thematter, Mr Dunn? Is the house on fire?

222 Heartbreak House

MAZZINI. Oh, no: nothing’s the matter:but really it’s impossible to go to sleep withsuch an interesting conversation going on un-der one’s window, and on such a beautifulnight too. I just had to come down and joinyou all. What has it all been about?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, wonderful things,soldier of freedom.

HECTOR. For example, Mangan, as apractical business man, has tried to undresshimself and has failed ignominiously; whilstyou, as an idealist, have succeeded brilliantly.

MAZZINI. I hope you don’t mind my beinglike this, Mrs Hushabye. [He sits down on thecampstool].

MRS HUSHABYE. On the contrary, Icould wish you always like that.

LADY UTTERWORD. Your daughter’smatch is off, Mr Dunn. It seems that Mr Man-gan, whom we all supposed to be a man ofproperty, owns absolutely nothing.

MAZZINI. Well, of course I knew that,Lady Utterword. But if people believe in himand are always giving him money, whereasthey don’t believe in me and never give meany, how can I ask poor Ellie to depend onwhat I can do for her?

MANGAN. Don’t you run away with thisidea that I have nothing. I—

HECTOR. Oh, don’t explain. We under-

ACT III 223

stand. You have a couple of thousand poundsin exchequer bills, 50,000 shares worth ten-pence a dozen, and half a dozen tabloids ofcyanide of potassium to poison yourself withwhen you are found out. That’s the reality ofyour millions.

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. He is quite hon-est: the businesses are genuine and perfectlylegal.

HECTOR [disgusted]. Yah! Not even agreat swindler!

MANGAN. So you think. But I’ve been toomany for some honest men, for all that.

LADY UTTERWORD. There is no pleasingyou, Mr Mangan. You are determined to beneither rich nor poor, honest nor dishonest.

MANGAN. There you go again. Ever sinceI came into this silly house I have been madeto look like a fool, though I’m as good a manin this house as in the city.

ELLIE [musically]. Yes: this silly house,this strangely happy house, this agonizinghouse, this house without foundations. I shallcall it Heartbreak House.

MRS HUSHABYE. Stop, Ellie; or I shallhowl like an animal.

MANGAN [breaks into a low snivelling]!!!MRS HUSAHBYE. There! you have set Al-

fred off.ELLIE. I like him best when he is howling.

224 Heartbreak House

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Silence! [Mangansubsides into silence]. I say, let the heartbreak in silence.

HECTOR. Do you accept that name foryour house?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It is not my house:it is only my kennel.

HECTOR. We have been too long here. Wedo not live in this house: we haunt it.

LADY UTTERWORD [heart torn]. It isdreadful to think how you have been here allthese years while I have gone round the world.I escaped young; but it has drawn me back. Itwants to break my heart too. But it shan’t. Ihave left you and it behind. It was silly of meto come back. I felt sentimental about papaand Hesione and the old place. I felt themcalling to me.

MAZZINI. But what a very natural andkindly and charming human feeling, Lady Ut-terword!

LADY UTTERWORD. So I thought, MrDunn. But I know now that it was only thelast of my influenza. I found that I was notremembered and not wanted.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You left becauseyou did not want us. Was there no heart-break in that for your father? You tore your-self up by the roots; and the ground healed upand brought forth fresh plants and forgot you.

ACT III 225

What right had you to come back and probeold wounds?

MRS HUSHABYE. You were a completestranger to me at first, Addy; but now I feelas if you had never been away.

LADY UTTERWORD. Thank you, Hes-ione; but the influenza is quite cured. Theplace may be Heartbreak House to you, MissDunn, and to this gentleman from the citywho seems to have so little self-control; butto me it is only a very ill-regulated and ratheruntidy villa without any stables.

HECTOR. Inhabited by—?ELLIE. A crazy old sea captain and a

young singer who adores him.MRS HUSHABYE. A sluttish female, try-

ing to stave off a double chin and an elderlyspread, vainly wooing a born soldier of free-dom.

MAZZINI. Oh, really, Mrs Hushabye—MANGAN. A member of His Majesty’s

Government that everybody sets down as anincompoop: don’t forget him, Lady Utter-word.

LADY UTTERWORD. And a very fascinat-ing gentleman whose chief occupation is to bemarried to my sister.

HECTOR. All heartbroken imbeciles.MAZZINI. Oh no. Surely, if I may say

so, rather a favorable specimen of what is

226 Heartbreak House

best in our English culture. You are verycharming people, most advanced, unpreju-diced, frank, humane, unconventional, demo-cratic, free-thinking, and everything that isdelightful to thoughtful people.

MRS HUSHABYE. You do us proud, Mazz-ini.

MAZZINI. I am not flattering, really.Where else could I feel perfectly at ease inmy pyjamas? I sometimes dream that I amin very distinguished society, and suddenly Ihave nothing on but my pyjamas! SometimesI haven’t even pyjamas. And I always feeloverwhelmed with confusion. But here, I don’tmind in the least: it seems quite natural.

LADY UTTERWORD. An infallible signthat you are now not in really distinguishedsociety, Mr Dunn. If you were in my house,you would feel embarrassed.

MAZZINI. I shall take particular care tokeep out of your house, Lady Utterword.

LADY UTTERWORD. You will be quitewrong, Mr Dunn. I should make you very com-fortable; and you would not have the troubleand anxiety of wondering whether you shouldwear your purple and gold or your green andcrimson dressing-gown at dinner. You com-plicate life instead of simplifying it by doingthese ridiculous things.

ELLIE. Your house is not Heartbreak

ACT III 227

House: is it, Lady Utterword?HECTOR. Yet she breaks hearts, easy as

her house is. That poor devil upstairs withhis flute howls when she twists his heart, justas Mangan howls when my wife twists his.

LADY UTTERWORD. That is becauseRandall has nothing to do but have his heartbroken. It is a change from having his headshampooed. Catch anyone breaking Hastings’heart!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The numskullwins, after all.

LADY UTTERWORD. I shall go back to mynumskull with the greatest satisfaction whenI am tired of you all, clever as you are.

MANGAN [huffily]. I never set up to beclever.

LADY UTTERWORD. I forgot you, MrMangan.

MANGAN. Well, I don’t see that quite, ei-ther.

LADY UTTERWORD. You may not beclever, Mr Mangan; but you are successful.

MANGAN. But I don’t want to be regardedmerely as a successful man. I have an imagi-nation like anyone else. I have a presentiment

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, you are impossible,Alfred. Here I am devoting myself to you; andyou think of nothing but your ridiculous pre-sentiment. You bore me. Come and talk po-

228 Heartbreak House

etry to me under the stars. [She drags himaway into the darkness].

MANGAN [tearfully, as he disappears].Yes: it’s all very well to make fun of me; but ifyou only knew—

HECTOR [impatiently]. How is all this go-ing to end?

MAZZINI. It won’t end, Mr Hushabye. Lifedoesn’t end: it goes on.

ELLIE. Oh, it can’t go on forever. I’m al-ways expecting something. I don’t know whatit is; but life must come to a point sometime.

LADY UTTERWORD. The point for ayoung woman of your age is a baby.

HECTOR. Yes, but, damn it, I have thesame feeling; and I can’t have a baby.

LADY UTTERWORD. By deputy, Hector.HECTOR. But I have children. All that

is over and done with for me: and yet I toofeel that this can’t last. We sit here talk-ing, and leave everything to Mangan and tochance and to the devil. Think of the powers ofdestruction that Mangan and his mutual ad-miration gang wield! It’s madness: it’s likegiving a torpedo to a badly brought up child toplay at earthquakes with.

MAZZINI. I know. I used often to thinkabout that when I was young.

HECTOR. Think! What’s the good ofthinking about it? Why didn’t you do some-

ACT III 229

thing?MAZZINI. But I did. I joined societies and

made speeches and wrote pamphlets. Thatwas all I could do. But, you know, thoughthe people in the societies thought they knewmore than Mangan, most of them wouldn’thave joined if they had known as much. Yousee they had never had any money to handleor any men to manage. Every year I expecteda revolution, or some frightful smash-up: itseemed impossible that we could blunder andmuddle on any longer. But nothing happened,except, of course, the usual poverty and crimeand drink that we are used to. Nothing everdoes happen. It’s amazing how well we getalong, all things considered.

LADY UTTERWORD. Perhaps somebodycleverer than you and Mr Mangan was atwork all the time.

MAZZINI. Perhaps so. Though I wasbrought up not to believe in anything, I oftenfeel that there is a great deal to be said for thetheory of an over-ruling Providence, after all.

LADY UTTERWORD. Providence! Imeant Hastings.

MAZZINI. Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Ut-terword.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Every drunkenskipper trusts to Providence. But one of theways of Providence with drunken skippers is

230 Heartbreak House

to run them on the rocks.MAZZINI. Very true, no doubt, at sea. But

in politics, I assure you, they only run into jel-lyfish. Nothing happens.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. At sea nothinghappens to the sea. Nothing happens to thesky. The sun comes up from the east and goesdown to the west. The moon grows from asickle to an arc lamp, and comes later andlater until she is lost in the light as otherthings are lost in the darkness. After the ty-phoon, the flying-fish glitter in the sunshinelike birds. It’s amazing how they get along, allthings considered. Nothing happens, exceptsomething not worth mentioning.

ELLIE. What is that, O Captain, O mycaptain?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [savagely]. Noth-ing but the smash of the drunken skipper’sship on the rocks, the splintering of her rot-ten timbers, the tearing of her rusty plates,the drowning of the crew like rats in a trap.

ELLIE. Moral: don’t take rum.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [vehemently]. That

is a lie, child. Let a man drink ten barrels ofrum a day, he is not a drunken skipper untilhe is a drifting skipper. Whilst he can lay hiscourse and stand on his bridge and steer it, heis no drunkard. It is the man who lies drink-ing in his bunk and trusts to Providence that

ACT III 231

I call the drunken skipper, though he dranknothing but the waters of the River Jordan.

ELLIE. Splendid! And you haven’t had adrop for an hour. You see you don’t need it:your own spirit is not dead.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Echoes: nothingbut echoes. The last shot was fired years ago.

HECTOR. And this ship that we are all in?This soul’s prison we call England?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The captain is inhis bunk, drinking bottled ditch-water; andthe crew is gambling in the forecastle. Shewill strike and sink and split. Do you thinkthe laws of God will be suspended in favor ofEngland because you were born in it?

HECTOR. Well, I don’t mean to bedrowned like a rat in a trap. I still have thewill to live. What am I to do?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Do? Nothing sim-pler. Learn your business as an Englishman.

HECTOR. And what may my business asan Englishman be, pray?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Navigation.Learn it and live; or leave it and be damned.

ELLIE. Quiet, quiet: you’ll tire yourself.MAZZINI. I thought all that once, Captain;

but I assure you nothing will happen.A dull distant explosion is heard.HECTOR [starting up]. What was that?CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Something hap-

232 Heartbreak House

pening [he blows his whistle]. Breakersahead!

The light goes out.HECTOR [furiously]. Who put that light

out? Who dared put that light out?NURSE GUINNESS [running in from the

house to the middle of the esplanade]. I did,sir. The police have telephoned to say we’ll besummoned if we don’t put that light out: it canbe seen for miles.

HECTOR. It shall be seen for a hundredmiles [he dashes into the house].

NURSE GUINNESS. The Rectory is noth-ing but a heap of bricks, they say. Unless wecan give the Rector a bed he has nowhere tolay his head this night.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The Church is onthe rocks, breaking up. I told him it wouldunless it headed for God’s open sea.

NURSE GUINNESS. And you are all to godown to the cellars.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go there your-self, you and all the crew. Batten down thehatches.

NURSE GUINNESS. And hide beside thecoward I married! I’ll go on the roof first. [Thelamp lights up again]. There! Mr Hushabye’sturned it on again.

THE BURGLAR [hurrying in and appeal-ing to Nurse Guinness]. Here: where’s the way

ACT III 233

to that gravel pit? The boot-boy says there’s acave in the gravel pit. Them cellars is no use.Where’s the gravel pit, Captain?

NURSE GUINNESS. Go straight on pastthe flagstaff until you fall into it and breakyour dirty neck. [She pushes him contemptu-ously towards the flagstaff, and herself goes tothe foot of the hammock and waits there, as itwere by Ariadne’s cradle].

Another and louder explosion is heard. Theburglar stops and stands trembling.

ELLIE [rising]. That was nearer.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The next one will

get us. [He rises]. Stand by, all hands, forjudgment.

THE BURGLAR. Oh my Lordy God! [Herushes away frantically past the flagstaff intothe gloom].

MRS HUSHABYE [emerging panting fromthe darkness]. Who was that running away?[She comes to Ellie]. Did you hear the explo-sions? And the sound in the sky: it’s splendid:it’s like an orchestra: it’s like Beethoven.

ELLIE. By thunder, Hesione: it isBeethoven.

She and Hesione throw themselves into oneanother’s arms in wild excitement. The lightincreases.

MAZZINI [anxiously]. The light is gettingbrighter.

234 Heartbreak House

NURSE GUINNESS [looking up at thehouse]. It’s Mr Hushabye turning on all thelights in the house and tearing down the cur-tains.

RANDALL [rushing in in his pyjamas, dis-tractedly waving a flute]. Ariadne, my soul,my precious, go down to the cellars: I beg andimplore you, go down to the cellars!

LADY UTTERWORD [quite composed inher hammock]. The governor’s wife in the cel-lars with the servants! Really, Randall!

RANDALL. But what shall I do if you arekilled?

LADY UTTERWORD. You will probably bekilled, too, Randall. Now play your flute toshow that you are not afraid; and be good.Play us “Keep the home fires burning.”

NURSE GUINNESS [grimly]. They’ll keepthe home fires burning for us: them up there.

RANDALL [having tried to play]. My lipsare trembling. I can’t get a sound.

MAZZINI. I hope poor Mangan is safe.MRS HUSHABYE. He is hiding in the cave

in the gravel pit.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. My dynamite

drew him there. It is the hand of God.HECTOR [returning from the house and

striding across to his former place]. There isnot half light enough. We should be blazing tothe skies.

ACT III 235

ELLIE [tense with excitement]. Set fire tothe house, Marcus.

MRS HUSHABYE. My house! No.HECTOR. I thought of that; but it would

not be ready in time.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The judgment has

come. Courage will not save you; but it willshow that your souls are still live.

MRS HUSHABYE. Sh-sh! Listen: do youhear it now? It’s magnificent.

They all turn away from the house and lookup, listening.

HECTOR [gravely]. Miss Dunn, you can dono good here. We of this house are only mothsflying into the candle. You had better go downto the cellar.

ELLIE [scornfully]. I don’t think.MAZZINI. Ellie, dear, there is no disgrace

in going to the cellar. An officer would orderhis soldiers to take cover. Mr Hushabye is be-having like an amateur. Mangan and the bur-glar are acting very sensibly; and it is theywho will survive.

ELLIE. Let them. I shall behave like anamateur. But why should you run any risk?

MAZZINI. Think of the risk those poor fel-lows up there are running!

NURSE GUINNESS. Think of them, in-deed, the murdering blackguards! What next?

A terrific explosion shakes the earth. They

236 Heartbreak House

reel back into their seats, or clutch the nearestsupport. They hear the falling of the shatteredglass from the windows.

MAZZINI. Is anyone hurt?HECTOR. Where did it fall?NURSE GUINNESS [in hideous triumph].

Right in the gravel pit: I seen it. Serve unright! I seen it [she runs away towards thegravel pit, laughing harshly].

HECTOR. One husband gone.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Thirty pounds of

good dynamite wasted.MAZZINI. Oh, poor Mangan!HECTOR. Are you immortal that you need

pity him? Our turn next.They wait in silence and intense expecta-

tion. Hesione and Ellie hold each other’s handtight.

A distant explosion is heard.MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her grip]. Oh!

they have passed us.LADY UTTERWORD. The danger is over,

Randall. Go to bed.CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Turn in, all

hands. The ship is safe. [He sits down andgoes asleep].

ELLIE [disappointedly]. Safe!HECTOR [disgustedly]. Yes, safe. And

how damnably dull the world has becomeagain suddenly! [he sits down].

ACT III 237

MAZZINI [sitting down]. I was quitewrong, after all. It is we who have survived;and Mangan and the burglar-

HECTOR. —the two burglars—LADY UTTERWORD. —the two practical

men of business—MAZZINI. —both gone. And the poor cler-

gyman will have to get a new house.MRS HUSHABYE. But what a glorious ex-

perience! I hope they’ll come again tomorrownight.

ELLIE [radiant at the prospect]. Oh, I hopeso.

Randall at last succeeds in keeping thehome fires burning on his flute.