Books: Heartbreak House

G >> GEORGE BERNARD SHAW >> Heartbreak House

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How War muzzles the Dramatic Poet

As for myself, why, it may be asked, did I not write two plays
about the war instead of two pamphlets on it? The answer is
significant. You cannot make war on war and on your neighbor at
the same time. War cannot bear the terrible castigation of
comedy, the ruthless light of laughter that glares on the stage.
When men are heroically dying for their country, it is not the
time to show their lovers and wives and fathers and mothers how
they are being sacrificed to the blunders of boobies, the
cupidity of capitalists, the ambition of conquerors, the
electioneering of demagogues, the Pharisaism of patriots, the
lusts and lies and rancors and bloodthirsts that love war because
it opens their prison doors, and sets them in the thrones of
power and popularity. For unless these things are mercilessly
exposed they will hide under the mantle of the ideals on the
stage just as they do in real life.

And though there may be better things to reveal, it may not, and
indeed cannot, be militarily expedient to reveal them whilst the
issue is still in the balance. Truth telling is not compatible
with the defence of the realm. We are just now reading the
revelations of our generals and admirals, unmuzzled at last by
the armistice. During the war, General A, in his moving
despatches from the field, told how General B had covered himself
with deathless glory in such and such a battle. He now tells us
that General B came within an ace of losing us the war by
disobeying his orders on that occasion, and fighting instead of
running away as he ought to have done. An excellent subject for
comedy now that the war is over, no doubt; but if General A had
let this out at the time, what would have been the effect on
General B's soldiers? And had the stage made known what the Prime
Minister and the Secretary of State for War who overruled General
A thought of him, and what he thought of them, as now revealed in
raging controversy, what would have been the effect on the
nation? That is why comedy, though sorely tempted, had to be
loyally silent; for the art of the dramatic poet knows no
patriotism; recognizes no obligation but truth to natural
history; cares not whether Germany or England perish; is ready to
cry with Brynhild, "Lass'uns verderben, lachend zu grunde geh'n"
sooner than deceive or be deceived; and thus becomes in time of
war a greater military danger than poison, steel, or
trinitrotoluene. That is why I had to withhold Heartbreak House
from the footlights during the war; for the Germans might on any
night have turned the last act from play into earnest, and even
then might not have waited for their cues.

June, 1919.

HEARTBREAK HOUSE

ACT I

The hilly country in the middle of the north edge of Sussex,
looking very pleasant on a fine evening at the end of September,
is seen through the windows of a room which has been built so as
to resemble the after part of an old-fashioned high-pooped ship,
with a stern gallery; for the windows are ship built with heavy
timbering, and run right across the room as continuously as the
stability of the wall allows. A row of lockers under the windows
provides an unupholstered windowseat interrupted by twin glass
doors, respectively halfway between the stern post and the sides.
Another door strains the illusion a little by being apparently in
the ship's port side, and yet leading, not to the open sea, but
to the entrance hall of the house. Between this door and the
stern gallery are bookshelves. There are electric light switches
beside the door leading to the hall and the glass doors in the
stern gallery. Against the starboard wall is a carpenter's bench.
The vice has a board in its jaws; and the floor is littered with
shavings, overflowing from a waste-paper basket. A couple of
planes and a centrebit are on the bench. In the same wall,
between the bench and the windows, is a narrow doorway with a
half door, above which a glimpse of the room beyond shows that it
is a shelved pantry with bottles and kitchen crockery.

On the starboard side, but close to the middle, is a plain oak
drawing-table with drawing-board, T-square, straightedges, set
squares, mathematical instruments, saucers of water color, a
tumbler of discolored water, Indian ink, pencils, and brushes on
it. The drawing-board is set so that the draughtsman'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
the room, near the bookshelves, is a sofa with its back to the
windows. It is a sturdy mahogany article, oddly upholstered in
sailcloth, including the bolster, with a couple of blankets
hanging over the back. Between the sofa and the drawing-table is
a big wicker chair, with broad arms and a low sloping back, with
its back to the light. A small but stout table of teak, with a
round top and gate legs, stands against the port wall between the
door and the bookcase. It is the only article in the room that
suggests (not at all convincingly) a woman's hand in the
furnishing. The uncarpeted floor of narrow boards is caulked and
holystoned like a deck.

The garden to which the glass doors lead dips to the south before
the landscape rises again to the hills. Emerging from the hollow
is the cupola of an observatory. Between the observatory and the
house is a flagstaff on a little esplanade, with a hammock on the
east side and a long garden seat on the west.

A young lady, gloved and hatted, with a dust coat on, is sitting
in the window-seat with her body twisted to enable her to look
out at the view. One hand props her chin: the other hangs down
with a volume of the Temple Shakespeare in it, and her finger
stuck in the 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.
She is a pretty girl, slender, fair, and intelligent looking,
nicely but not expensively dressed, evidently not a smart idler.

With a sigh of weary resignation she comes to the draughtsman's
chair; sits down; and begins to read Shakespeare. Presently the
book sinks to her lap; her eyes close; and she dozes into a
slumber.

An elderly womanservant comes in from the hall with three
unopened bottles of rum on a tray. She passes through and
disappears in the pantry without noticing the young lady. She
places the bottles on the shelf and fills her tray with empty
bottles. As she returns with these, the young lady lets her book
drop, awakening herself, and startling the womanservant so that
she all but lets the tray fall.

THE WOMANSERVANT. God bless us! [The young lady picks up the book
and places it on the table]. Sorry to wake you, miss, I'm sure;
but you are a stranger to me. What might you be waiting here for
now?

THE YOUNG LADY. Waiting for somebody to show some signs of
knowing that I have been invited here.

THE WOMANSERVANT. Oh, you're invited, are you? And has nobody
come? Dear! dear!

THE YOUNG LADY. A wild-looking old gentleman came and looked in
at the window; and I heard him calling out, "Nurse, there is a
young and attractive female waiting in the poop. Go and see what
she wants." Are you the nurse?

THE WOMANSERVANT. Yes, miss: I'm Nurse Guinness. That was old
Captain Shotover, Mrs Hushabye's father. I heard him roaring; but
I thought it was for something else. I suppose it was Mrs
Hushabye that invited 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 forgotten all about it, it will be a pleasant
surprise for her to see you, won't it?

THE YOUNG LADY. It has been a very unpleasant surprise to me to
find that nobody expects me.

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [looking in from the hall suddenly: an ancient
but still hardy man with an immense white beard, in a reefer
jacket with a whistle hanging from his neck]. Nurse, there is a
hold-all and a handbag on the front steps for everybody to fall
over. Also a tennis racquet. Who the devil left them there?

THE YOUNG LADY. They are mine, I'm afraid.

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

NURSE GUINNESS. She says Miss Hessy invited her, sir.

THE CAPTAIN. And had she no friend, no parents, to warn her
against my daughter's invitations? This is a pretty sort of
house, by heavens! A young and attractive lady is invited here.
Her luggage is left on the steps for hours; and she herself is
deposited in the poop and abandoned, tired and starving. This is
our hospitality. These are our manners. No room ready. No hot
water. No welcoming hostess. Our visitor is to sleep in the
toolshed, and to wash in the duckpond.

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

THE CAPTAIN [as she passes him]. Ducky! Do you suppose, woman,
that because this young lady has been insulted and neglected, you
have the right to address her as you address my wretched
children, whom you have brought up in ignorance of the commonest
decencies of social intercourse?

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

THE CAPTAIN. Madam, will you favor me with your name? [He sits
down in the big wicker chair].

THE YOUNG LADY. My name is Ellie Dunn.

THE CAPTAIN. Dunn! I had a boatswain whose name was Dunn. He was
originally a pirate in China. He set up as a ship's chandler with
stores which I have every reason to believe he stole from me. No
doubt he became rich. Are you his daughter?

ELLIE [indignant]. No, certainly not. I am proud to be able to
say that though my father has not been a successful man, nobody
has ever had one word to say against him. I think my father is
the best man I have ever known.

THE CAPTAIN. He must be greatly changed. Has he attained the
seventh degree of 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 invited you
here. I keep this house: she upsets it. I desire to attain the
seventh degree of concentration: she invites visitors and leaves
me to entertain them. [Nurse Guinness returns with the tea-tray,
which she places on the teak table]. I have a second daughter who
is, thank God, in a remote part of the Empire with her numskull
of a husband. As a child she thought the figure-head of my ship,
the Dauntless, the most beautiful thing on earth. He resembled
it. He had the same expression: wooden yet enterprising. She
married him, and will never set foot in this house again.

NURSE GUINNESS [carrying the table, with the tea-things on it, to
Ellie's side]. Indeed you never were more mistaken. She is in
England this very moment. You have been told three times this
week that she is coming home for a year for her health. And very
glad you should be to see your own daughter again after all these
years.

THE CAPTAIN. I am not glad. The natural term of the affection of
the human animal for its offspring is six years. My daughter
Ariadne was born when I was forty-six. I am now eighty-eight. If
she comes, I am not at home. If she wants anything, let her take
it. If she asks for me, let her be informed that I am extremely
old, and have totally forgotten her.

NURSE GUINNESS. That's no talk to offer to a young lady. Here,
ducky, have some tea; and don't listen to him [she pours out a
cup of tea].

THE CAPTAIN [rising wrathfully]. Now before high heaven they have
given this innocent child Indian tea: the stuff they tan their
own leather insides with. [He seizes the cup and the tea-pot and
empties both into the leathern bucket].

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

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

THE CAPTAIN. You shall have some of my tea. Do not touch that
fly-blown cake: nobody eats it here except the dogs. [He
disappears into the pantry].

NURSE GUINNESS. There's a man for you! They say he sold himself
to the devil in Zanzibar before he was a captain; and the older
he grows the more I believe them.

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

Thumping heard, as of an umbrella, on the wainscot.

NURSE GUINNESS. My gracious! It's Miss Addy, Lady Utterword, Mrs
Hushabye's sister: the one I told the captain about. [Calling].
Coming, Miss, coming.

She carries the table back to its place by the door and is
harrying out when she is intercepted by Lady Utterword, who
bursts in much flustered. Lady Utterword, a blonde, is very
handsome, very well dressed, and so precipitate in speech and
action that the first impression (erroneous) is one of comic
silliness.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, is that you, Nurse? How are you? You don't
look a day older. Is nobody at home? Where is Hesione? Doesn't
she expect me? Where are the servants? Whose luggage is that on
the steps? Where's papa? Is everybody asleep? [Seeing Ellie]. Oh!
I beg your pardon. I suppose you are one of my nieces.
[Approaching her with outstretched arms]. Come and kiss your
aunt, darling.

ELLIE. I'm only a visitor. It is my luggage on the steps.

NURSE GUINNESS. I'll go get you some fresh tea, ducky. [She takes
up the tray].

ELLIE. But the old gentleman said he would make some himself.

NURSE GUINNESS. Bless you! he's forgotten what he went for
already. His mind wanders 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 must feel. Oh, this house, this house! I come back to it
after twenty-three years; and it is just the same: the luggage
lying on the steps, the servants spoilt and impossible, nobody at
home to receive anybody, no regular meals, nobody ever hungry
because they are always gnawing bread and butter or munching
apples, and, what is worse, the same disorder in ideas, in talk,
in feeling. When I was a child I was used to it: I had never
known anything better, though I was unhappy, and longed all the
time--oh, how I longed!--to be respectable, to be a lady, to live
as others did, not to have to think of everything for myself. I
married at nineteen to escape from it. My husband is Sir Hastings
Utterword, who has been governor of all the crown colonies in
succession. I have always been the mistress of Government House.
I have been so happy: I had forgotten that people could live like
this. I wanted to see my father, my sister, my nephews and nieces
(one ought to, you know), and I was looking forward to it. And
now the state of the house! the way I'm received! the casual
impudence of that woman Guinness, our old nurse! really Hesione
might at least have been here: some preparation might have been
made for me. You must excuse my going on in this way; but I am
really very much hurt and annoyed and disillusioned: and if I had
realized it was to be like this, I wouldn't have come. I have a
great mind to go away without another word [she is on the point
of weeping].

ELLIE [also very miserable]. Nobody has been here to receive me
either. I thought I ought to go away too. But how can I, Lady
Utterword? My luggage is on the steps; and 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 end of 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. Ellie 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 know me? I'm your daughter.

THE CAPTAIN. Nonsense! my daughter's upstairs asleep. [He
vanishes through the half door].

Lady Utterword retires to the window to conceal her tears.

ELLIE [going to her with the cup]. Don't be so distressed. Have
this cup of tea. He is very old and very strange: he has been
just like that to me. I know how dreadful it must be: 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. I'm little Paddy Patkins. Won't you kiss me? [She
goes to him and throws her arms round his neck].

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

LADY UTTERWORD. But think of all the years and years I have been
away, Papa. I have 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 degree of
concentration.

LADY UTTERWORD. But I'm your daughter. You haven't seen me for
years.

THE CAPTAIN. So much the worse! When our relatives are at home,
we have to think of all their good points or it would be
impossible to endure them. But when they are away, we console
ourselves for their absence by dwelling on their vices. That is
how I have come to think my absent daughter Ariadne a perfect
fiend; so do not try to ingratiate yourself here by impersonating
her [he walks firmly away to the other side of the room].

LADY UTTERWORD. Ingratiating myself indeed! [With dignity]. Very
well, papa. [She sits down at the drawing-table and pours out tea
for herself].

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

LADY UTTERWORD. DO you mean that villainous sailor who robbed
you?

THE CAPTAIN [introducing Ellie]. His daughter. [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, he didn't forget you after all! You HAVE made an
impression.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. How can children be expected to be youthful in
this house? Almost before we could speak we were filled with
notions that might have been all very well for pagan philosophers
of fifty, but were certainly quite unfit for respectable people
of any age.

NURSE. You were always for respectability, Miss Addy.

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

NURSE. Yes, ducky: all right. I'll tell them all they must call
you My Lady. [She takes her tray out with undisturbed placidity].

LADY UTTERWORD. What comfort? what sense is there in having
servants with no manners?

ELLIE [rising and coming to the table to put down her empty cup].
Lady Utterword, do you 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'
absence! and it seems that I am not expected.

THE CAPTAIN. What does it matter whether 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 the door].

ELLIE [following him to stop him]. Oh, please--[He goes out].
Lady Utterword, I don't know what to do. Your father persists in
believing that my father is some sailor who robbed him.

LADY UTTERWORD. You had better pretend not to notice it. My
father is a very clever man; but he always forgot things; and now
that he is old, of course he is worse. And I must warn you that
it is sometimes very hard to feel quite sure that he really
forgets.

Mrs Hushabye bursts into the room tempestuously and embraces
Ellie. She is a couple of years older than Lady Utterword, and
even better looking. She has magnificent black hair, eyes like
the fishpools of Heshbon, and a nobly modelled neck, short at the
back and low between her shoulders in front. Unlike her sister
she is uncorseted and dressed anyhow in a rich robe of black pile
that shows off her white skin and statuesque contour.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie, my darling, my pettikins [kissing her], how
long have you been here? I've been at home all the time: I was
putting flowers and things in your room; and when I just sat down
for a moment to try how comfortable the armchair was I went off
to sleep. Papa woke me and told me you were here. Fancy your
finding no one, and being neglected and abandoned. [Kissing her
again]. My poor love! [She deposits Ellie on the sofa. Meanwhile
Ariadne has left the table and come over to claim her share of
attention]. Oh! you've brought someone with you. Introduce me.

LADY UTTERWORD. Hesione, is it possible that you don't know me?

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

LADY UTTERWORD. Didn't Papa tell you I was here? Oh! this is
really too much. [She 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 the shoulders]. My goodness gracious
goodness, you don't mean to say that you're Addy!

LADY UTTERWORD. I certainly am Addy; and I don't think I can be
so changed that you would not have recognized me if you had any
real affection for me. And Papa didn't think me even worth
mentioning!

MRS HUSHABYE. What a lark! Sit down [she pushes her back into the
chair instead of kissing her, and posts herself behind it]. You
DO look a swell. You're much handsomer than you used to be.
You've made the acquaintance of Ellie, of course. She is going to
marry a perfect hog of a millionaire for the sake of her father,
who is as poor as a church mouse; and you must help me to stop
her.

ELLIE. Oh, please, Hesione!

MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, the man's coming here today with your
father to begin persecuting you; and everybody will see the state
of the case in ten minutes; so what's the use of making a secret
of it?

ELLIE. He is not a hog, Hesione. You don't know how wonderfully
good he was to my father, 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 was a celebrity of
some kind who knew Ellie's grandparents. They were both poets,
like the Brownings; and when her father came into the world
Mazzini said, "Another soldier born for freedom!" So they
christened him Mazzini; and he has been fighting for freedom in
his quiet way ever since. That's why he is so poor.

ELLIE. I am proud of his poverty.

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course you are, pettikins. Why not leave him in
it, and marry someone you love?

LADY UTTERWORD [rising suddenly and explosively]. Hesione, are
you going to kiss me or are you not?

MRS HUSHABYE. What do you want to be kissed for?

LADY UTTERWORD. I DON'T want to be kissed; but I do want you to
behave properly and decently. We are sisters. We have been
separated for twenty-three years. You OUGHT to kiss me.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! you unfeeling--[she is interrupted by the
return of the captain].

THE CAPTAIN [to Ellie]. Your room is ready. [Ellie rises]. The
sheets were damp; but I have changed them [he makes for the
garden door on the port side].

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! What about my sheets?

THE CAPTAIN [halting at the door]. Take my advice: air them: or
take them off and sleep in blankets. You shall sleep in Ariadne's
old room.

LADY UTTERWORD. Indeed I shall do nothing of the sort. That
little hole! I am entitled to the best spare room.

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

LADT UTTERWORD. You are pretending not to know me on purpose. I
will leave the house.

Mazzini Dunn enters from the hall. He is a little elderly man
with bulging credulous eyes and earnest manners. He is dressed in
a blue serge jacket suit with an unbuttoned mackintosh over it,
and carries a soft black hat of clerical cut.

ELLIE. At last! Captain Shotover, here is my father.

THE CAPTAIN. This! Nonsense! not a bit like him [he goes away
through the garden, shutting the door sharply behind him].

LADY UTTERWORD. I will not be ignored and pretended to be
somebody else. I will have it out with Papa now, this instant.
[To Mazzini]. Excuse me. [She follows the captain out, making a
hasty bow to Mazzini, who returns it].

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