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HEARTBREAK HOUSE

A FANTASIA IN THE RUSSIAN MANNER ON ENGLISH THEMES

By Bernard Shaw

1913-1916

HEARTBREAK HOUSE AND HORSEBACK HALL

HEARTBREAK HOUSE AND HORSEBACK HALL

Where Heartbreak House Stands

Where Heartbreak House is Located

Heartbreak House is not merely the name of the play which follows this preface. It is cultured, leisured Europe before the war. When the play was begun not a shot had been fired; and only the professional diplomatists and the very few amateurs whose hobby is foreign policy even knew that the guns were loaded. A Russian playwright, Tchekov, had produced four fascinating dramatic studies of Heartbreak House, of which three, The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, and The Seagull, had been performed in England. Tolstoy, in his Fruits of Enlightenment, had shown us through it in his most ferociously contemptuous manner. Tolstoy did not waste any sympathy on it: it was to him the house in which Europe was stifling its soul; and he knew that our utter enervation and futilization in that overheated drawingroom atmosphere was delivering the world over to the control of ignorant and soulless cunning and energy, with the frightful consequences which have now overtaken it. Tolstoy was no pessimist: he was not disposed to leave the house standing if he could bring it down about the ears of its pretty and amiable voluptuaries; and he wielded the pickaxe with a will. He treated the case of the inmates as one of opium poisoning, to be dealt with by seizing the patients roughly and exercising them violently until they were broad awake. Tchekov, more of a fatalist, had no faith in these charming people extricating themselves. They would, he thought, be sold up and sent adrift by the bailiffs; and he therefore had no scruple in exploiting and even flattering their charm.

Heartbreak House isn't just the title of the play that comes after this preface. It represents the cultured, leisurely Europe before the war. When the play was started, no shots had been fired, and only the professional diplomats and a few hobbyists interested in foreign policy knew the guns were loaded. A Russian playwright, Chekhov, had created four intriguing dramatic works about Heartbreak House, three of which—The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, and The Seagull—had been performed in England. Tolstoy, in his Fruits of Enlightenment, presented it in his fiercely contemptuous way. He showed no sympathy for it; to him, it was a house where Europe was stifling its soul, and he recognized that our complete exhaustion and futility in that overly warm drawing room atmosphere were surrendering the world to the control of ignorant, soulless cunning and energy, leading to the terrible consequences we now face. Tolstoy was not a pessimist; he wasn't inclined to let the house remain standing if he could bring it down around the ears of its pretty and charming hedonists, and he swung the pickaxe with determination. He viewed the situation of the residents as one of opium poisoning, to be addressed by shaking the patients roughly and exercising them vigorously until they were fully awake. Chekhov, being more of a fatalist, had little faith in these charming people finding their way out. He believed they would eventually be sold off and left to fend for themselves by the bailiffs, so he felt no guilt in exploiting and even flattering their charm.

The Inhabitants

The Residents

Tchekov's plays, being less lucrative than swings and roundabouts, got no further in England, where theatres are only ordinary commercial affairs, than a couple of performances by the Stage Society. We stared and said, "How Russian!" They did not strike me in that way. Just as Ibsen's intensely Norwegian plays exactly fitted every middle and professional class suburb in Europe, these intensely Russian plays fitted all the country houses in Europe in which the pleasures of music, art, literature, and the theatre had supplanted hunting, shooting, fishing, flirting, eating, and drinking. The same nice people, the same utter futility. The nice people could read; some of them could write; and they were the sole repositories of culture who had social opportunities of contact with our politicians, administrators, and newspaper proprietors, or any chance of sharing or influencing their activities. But they shrank from that contact. They hated politics. They did not wish to realize Utopia for the common people: they wished to realize their favorite fictions and poems in their own lives; and, when they could, they lived without scruple on incomes which they did nothing to earn. The women in their girlhood made themselves look like variety theatre stars, and settled down later into the types of beauty imagined by the previous generation of painters. They took the only part of our society in which there was leisure for high culture, and made it an economic, political and; as far as practicable, a moral vacuum; and as Nature, abhorring the vacuum, immediately filled it up with sex and with all sorts of refined pleasures, it was a very delightful place at its best for moments of relaxation. In other moments it was disastrous. For prime ministers and their like, it was a veritable Capua.

Chekhov's plays, which were less profitable than amusement parks, didn’t really get anywhere in England, where theaters are just regular commercial ventures, beyond a few performances by the Stage Society. We looked on and thought, "How Russian!" But they didn’t strike me that way. Just as Ibsen's deeply Norwegian plays fit perfectly in every suburban middle and professional class area in Europe, these deeply Russian plays suited all the country houses in Europe where the delights of music, art, literature, and theater had taken the place of hunting, shooting, fishing, flirting, eating, and drinking. The same nice people, the same utter pointlessness. The nice people could read; some of them could write; and they were the only ones with any cultural connection to our politicians, administrators, and newspaper owners, or any chance to share in or influence their activities. But they avoided that contact. They despised politics. They didn’t want to create Utopia for the common people; they wanted to bring their favorite stories and poems to life in their own experiences; and when they could, they lived without guilt on incomes they didn’t earn. The women, in their youth, styled themselves like variety theater stars and later conformed to the types of beauty envisioned by the previous generation of painters. They took the only part of our society where there was room for high culture and turned it into an economic, political, and, as much as possible, a moral vacuum; and as Nature, disliking a vacuum, quickly filled it with sex and various refined pleasures, it became a wonderfully enjoyable place at its best for moments of relaxation. At other times, it was a disaster. For prime ministers and people like them, it was a true Capua.

Horseback Hall

But where were our front benchers to nest if not here? The alternative to Heartbreak House was Horseback Hall, consisting of a prison for horses with an annex for the ladies and gentlemen who rode them, hunted them, talked about them, bought them and sold them, and gave nine-tenths of their lives to them, dividing the other tenth between charity, churchgoing (as a substitute for religion), and conservative electioneering (as a substitute for politics). It is true that the two establishments got mixed at the edges. Exiles from the library, the music room, and the picture gallery would be found languishing among the stables, miserably discontented; and hardy horsewomen who slept at the first chord of Schumann were born, horribly misplaced, into the garden of Klingsor; but sometimes one came upon horsebreakers and heartbreakers who could make the best of both worlds. As a rule, however, the two were apart and knew little of one another; so the prime minister folk had to choose between barbarism and Capua. And of the two atmospheres it is hard to say which was the more fatal to statesmanship.

But where were our top politicians supposed to settle if not here? The alternative to Heartbreak House was Horseback Hall, which was basically a stable for horses with an addition for the ladies and gentlemen who rode them, hunted them, talked about them, bought them and sold them, and dedicated nine-tenths of their lives to them, splitting the other tenth between charity, attending church (as a stand-in for religion), and conservative campaigning (as a stand-in for politics). It's true that the two crowds sometimes blended at the edges. People escaping from the library, the music room, and the picture gallery could be found hanging around the stables, feeling miserable and out of place; and tough horsewomen who fell asleep at the first notes of Schumann found themselves, unfortunately out of their element, in the garden of Klingsor. But occasionally you would find horse trainers and heartbroken souls who could thrive in both settings. Generally, however, the two stayed separate and knew little about each other; so the prime minister crowd had to choose between uncivilized life and Capua. And of the two environments, it's hard to say which was more detrimental to effective leadership.

Revolution on the Shelf

Heartbreak House was quite familiar with revolutionary ideas on paper. It aimed at being advanced and freethinking, and hardly ever went to church or kept the Sabbath except by a little extra fun at weekends. When you spent a Friday to Tuesday in it you found on the shelf in your bedroom not only the books of poets and novelists, but of revolutionary biologists and even economists. Without at least a few plays by myself and Mr Granville Barker, and a few stories by Mr H. G. Wells, Mr Arnold Bennett, and Mr John Galsworthy, the house would have been out of the movement. You would find Blake among the poets, and beside him Bergson, Butler, Scott Haldane, the poems of Meredith and Thomas Hardy, and, generally speaking, all the literary implements for forming the mind of the perfect modern Socialist and Creative Evolutionist. It was a curious experience to spend Sunday in dipping into these books, and the Monday morning to read in the daily paper that the country had just been brought to the verge of anarchy because a new Home Secretary or chief of police without an idea in his head that his great-grandmother might not have had to apologize for, had refused to "recognize" some powerful Trade Union, just as a gondola might refuse to recognize a 20,000-ton liner.

Heartbreak House was quite familiar with revolutionary ideas on paper. It aimed to be progressive and open-minded, and hardly ever attended church or observed the Sabbath, except for a little extra fun on weekends. When you spent a Friday to Tuesday there, you found not only the books of poets and novelists on the shelf in your bedroom but also those of revolutionary biologists and even economists. Without at least a few plays by myself and Mr. Granville Barker and a few stories by Mr. H. G. Wells, Mr. Arnold Bennett, and Mr. John Galsworthy, the house would have felt disconnected from the movement. You would find Blake among the poets, and next to him were Bergson, Butler, Scott Haldane, the poems of Meredith and Thomas Hardy, and generally speaking, all the literary resources aimed at shaping the mind of the ideal modern Socialist and Creative Evolutionist. It was an unusual experience to spend Sunday exploring these books, only to read in the daily paper on Monday morning that the country had just been pushed to the brink of chaos because a new Home Secretary or police chief, lacking any ideas that his great-grandmother wouldn’t have had to apologize for, had refused to "recognize" some influential Trade Union, just as a gondola might refuse to acknowledge a 20,000-ton liner.

In short, power and culture were in separate compartments. The barbarians were not only literally in the saddle, but on the front bench in the House of commons, with nobody to correct their incredible ignorance of modern thought and political science but upstarts from the counting-house, who had spent their lives furnishing their pockets instead of their minds. Both, however, were practised in dealing with money and with men, as far as acquiring the one and exploiting the other went; and although this is as undesirable an expertness as that of the medieval robber baron, it qualifies men to keep an estate or a business going in its old routine without necessarily understanding it, just as Bond Street tradesmen and domestic servants keep fashionable society going without any instruction in sociology.

In short, power and culture were kept separate. The barbarians were not only literally in control but also in prominent positions in the House of Commons, with no one to correct their shocking lack of knowledge about modern ideas and political science, except for those new to wealth, who had spent their lives enriching their pockets instead of their minds. Both groups, however, were skilled at handling money and people, mainly when it came to acquiring the former and exploiting the latter; and even though this expertise is as undesirable as that of a medieval robber baron, it enables people to maintain a business or estate in its usual way without fully understanding it, just like high-end retailers and household staff keep fashionable society running without any training in sociology.

The Cherry Orchard

The Heartbreak people neither could nor would do anything of the sort. With their heads as full of the Anticipations of Mr H. G. Wells as the heads of our actual rulers were empty even of the anticipations of Erasmus or Sir Thomas More, they refused the drudgery of politics, and would have made a very poor job of it if they had changed their minds. Not that they would have been allowed to meddle anyhow, as only through the accident of being a hereditary peer can anyone in these days of Votes for Everybody get into parliament if handicapped by a serious modern cultural equipment; but if they had, their habit of living in a vacuum would have left them helpless end ineffective in public affairs. Even in private life they were often helpless wasters of their inheritance, like the people in Tchekov's Cherry Orchard. Even those who lived within their incomes were really kept going by their solicitors and agents, being unable to manage an estate or run a business without continual prompting from those who have to learn how to do such things or starve.

The Heartbreak people couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything like that. With their heads filled with the expectations of Mr. H.G. Wells while our actual leaders were completely empty of even the hopes of Erasmus or Sir Thomas More, they turned away from the hard work of politics and would have done a terrible job if they had changed their minds. Not that they’d have been allowed to interfere anyway, since only by virtue of being a hereditary peer can anyone these days, in an era of Votes for Everybody, get into parliament if they’re burdened by a serious modern education. But even if they had, their tendency to live in a bubble would have left them useless and ineffective in public matters. Even in their personal lives, they often squandered their inheritance, much like the characters in Chekhov's Cherry Orchard. Even those who lived within their means were really propped up by their lawyers and agents, unable to manage an estate or run a business without constant reminders from those who have to learn how to do such things or face failure.

From what is called Democracy no corrective to this state of things could be hoped. It is said that every people has the Government it deserves. It is more to the point that every Government has the electorate it deserves; for the orators of the front bench can edify or debauch an ignorant electorate at will. Thus our democracy moves in a vicious circle of reciprocal worthiness and unworthiness.

From what’s known as Democracy, no solution to this situation can be expected. People say that every society has the government it deserves. It’s more accurate to say that every government has the electorate it deserves; for the speakers in power can either uplift or corrupt an uninformed electorate at will. Thus, our democracy operates in a harmful cycle of mutual merit and failure.

Nature's Long Credits

Nature's Extended Credits

Nature's way of dealing with unhealthy conditions is unfortunately not one that compels us to conduct a solvent hygiene on a cash basis. She demoralizes us with long credits and reckless overdrafts, and then pulls us up cruelly with catastrophic bankruptcies. Take, for example, common domestic sanitation. A whole city generation may neglect it utterly and scandalously, if not with absolute impunity, yet without any evil consequences that anyone thinks of tracing to it. In a hospital two generations of medical students way tolerate dirt and carelessness, and then go out into general practice to spread the doctrine that fresh air is a fad, and sanitation an imposture set up to make profits for plumbers. Then suddenly Nature takes her revenge. She strikes at the city with a pestilence and at the hospital with an epidemic of hospital gangrene, slaughtering right and left until the innocent young have paid for the guilty old, and the account is balanced. And then she goes to sleep again and gives another period of credit, with the same result.

Nature’s way of handling unhealthy conditions sadly doesn’t force us to manage our hygiene financially. She discourages us with long credit terms and reckless overdrafts, only to hit us hard with devastating bankruptcies later. Take, for example, basic sanitation in a city. A whole generation can completely ignore it, often without facing any real consequences. In a hospital, two generations of medical students can tolerate messiness and negligence, then enter general practice promoting the idea that fresh air is just a trend, and sanitation is a scam designed to profit plumbers. Then, out of nowhere, Nature takes her revenge. She unleashes a plague on the city and an epidemic of hospital gangrene in the hospital, ruthlessly taking lives until the innocent young pay for the mistakes of the guilty old, balancing the accounts. After that, she falls silent again, granting another period of credit, leading to the same outcome.

This is what has just happened in our political hygiene. Political science has been as recklessly neglected by Governments and electorates during my lifetime as sanitary science was in the days of Charles the Second. In international relations diplomacy has been a boyishly lawless affair of family intrigues, commercial and territorial brigandage, torpors of pseudo-goodnature produced by laziness and spasms of ferocious activity produced by terror. But in these islands we muddled through. Nature gave us a longer credit than she gave to France or Germany or Russia. To British centenarians who died in their beds in 1914, any dread of having to hide underground in London from the shells of an enemy seemed more remote and fantastic than a dread of the appearance of a colony of cobras and rattlesnakes in Kensington Gardens. In the prophetic works of Charles Dickens we were warned against many evils which have since come to pass; but of the evil of being slaughtered by a foreign foe on our own doorsteps there was no shadow. Nature gave us a very long credit; and we abused it to the utmost. But when she struck at last she struck with a vengeance. For four years she smote our firstborn and heaped on us plagues of which Egypt never dreamed. They were all as preventable as the great Plague of London, and came solely because they had not been prevented. They were not undone by winning the war. The earth is still bursting with the dead bodies of the victors.

This is what has just happened in our political situation. Political science has been as carelessly ignored by governments and voters during my lifetime as sanitary science was in the days of Charles II. In international relations, diplomacy has been a recklessly chaotic mix of family dramas, commercial and territorial theft, periods of fake goodwill brought on by laziness, and bursts of extreme activity driven by fear. But here in these islands, we managed to get by. Nature gave us more leeway than she gave to France, Germany, or Russia. To British centenarians who died peacefully in their beds in 1914, the idea of having to hide underground in London from enemy shells seemed more distant and surreal than fearing a colony of cobras and rattlesnakes showing up in Kensington Gardens. In the prophetic works of Charles Dickens, we were warned about many issues that have since come true; however, there was no hint of the danger of being slaughtered by a foreign enemy on our own doorsteps. Nature gave us a long grace period, and we took full advantage of it. But when she finally acted, it was with a terrible force. For four years, she struck our firstborn and brought upon us disasters that Egypt could never have imagined. They were all preventable, just like the Great Plague of London, and they occurred only because they hadn’t been prevented. Winning the war didn’t undo them. The earth is still overflowing with the dead bodies of the victors.

The Wicked Half Century

The Wicked 50 Years

It is difficult to say whether indifference and neglect are worse than false doctrine; but Heartbreak House and Horseback Hall unfortunately suffered from both. For half a century before the war civilization had been going to the devil very precipitately under the influence of a pseudo-science as disastrous as the blackest Calvinism. Calvinism taught that as we are predestinately saved or damned, nothing that we can do can alter our destiny. Still, as Calvinism gave the individual no clue as to whether he had drawn a lucky number or an unlucky one, it left him a fairly strong interest in encouraging his hopes of salvation and allaying his fear of damnation by behaving as one of the elect might be expected to behave rather than as one of the reprobate. But in the middle of the nineteenth century naturalists and physicists assured the world, in the name of Science, that salvation and damnation are all nonsense, and that predestination is the central truth of religion, inasmuch as human beings are produced by their environment, their sins and good deeds being only a series of chemical and mechanical reactions over which they have no control. Such figments as mind, choice, purpose, conscience, will, and so forth, are, they taught, mere illusions, produced because they are useful in the continual struggle of the human machine to maintain its environment in a favorable condition, a process incidentally involving the ruthless destruction or subjection of its competitors for the supply (assumed to be limited) of subsistence available. We taught Prussia this religion; and Prussia bettered our instruction so effectively that we presently found ourselves confronted with the necessity of destroying Prussia to prevent Prussia destroying us. And that has just ended in each destroying the other to an extent doubtfully reparable in our time.

It's hard to say whether indifference and neglect are worse than false beliefs; however, Heartbreak House and Horseback Hall unfortunately faced both. For fifty years before the war, civilization had been rapidly falling apart due to a pseudo-science as damaging as the harshest Calvinism. Calvinism suggested that since we are predetermined to be saved or damned, nothing we do can change our fate. However, since Calvinism didn’t give individuals any certainty about whether they had hit the jackpot or drawn the short straw, it allowed people a legitimate interest in nurturing their hopes for salvation and easing their fears of damnation by acting like one of the chosen rather than one of the damned. But in the mid-nineteenth century, naturalists and physicists claimed, in the name of Science, that salvation and damnation are nonsense, and that predestination is the core truth of religion since humans are shaped by their environment, and their sins and good deeds are just a series of chemical and mechanical reactions beyond their control. They argued that concepts like mind, choice, purpose, conscience, and will are all illusions created because they help in the constant struggle of the human machine to keep its surroundings favorable, which incidentally involves the ruthless destruction or subjugation of its competitors for the (assumed to be limited) resources necessary for survival. We taught Prussia this belief system; and Prussia refined our teachings so well that we soon found ourselves needing to destroy Prussia to prevent it from destroying us. And that has just resulted in both sides inflicting damage on each other to an extent that seems unlikely to be fixed in our time.

It may be asked how so imbecile and dangerous a creed ever came to be accepted by intelligent beings. I will answer that question 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 were better reasons than the obvious one that such sham science as this opened a scientific career to very stupid men, and all the other careers to shameless rascals, provided they were industrious enough. It is true that this motive operated very powerfully; but when the new departure in scientific doctrine which is associated with the name of the great naturalist Charles Darwin began, it was not only a reaction against a barbarous pseudo-evangelical teleology intolerably obstructive to all scientific progress, but was accompanied, as it happened, by discoveries of extraordinary interest in physics, chemistry, and that lifeless method of evolution which its investigators called Natural Selection. Howbeit, there was only one result possible in the ethical sphere, and that was the banishment of conscience from human affairs, or, as Samuel Butler vehemently put it, "of mind from the universe."

One might wonder how such a foolish and dangerous belief was accepted by intelligent people. I’ll delve deeper into that question in my next volume of plays, which will focus entirely on this topic. For now, I’ll just say that there were more significant reasons than the obvious one that this fake science provided a career path for very dull individuals, and all other opportunities for shameless scoundrels, as long as they worked hard. It's true that this motivation had a significant impact; however, when the shift in scientific thinking associated with the great naturalist Charles Darwin began, it was not only a reaction against a brutal pseudo-evangelical teleology that was a major barrier to scientific progress, but it also coincided with remarkable discoveries in physics, chemistry, and the lifeless method of evolution that its researchers called Natural Selection. Nevertheless, there was only one possible outcome in the ethical realm, which was the removal of conscience from human affairs, or, as Samuel Butler passionately stated, "of mind from the universe."

Hypochondria

Health anxiety

Now Heartbreak House, with Butler and Bergson and Scott Haldane alongside Blake and the other major poets on its shelves (to say nothing of Wagner and the tone poets), was not so completely blinded by the doltish materialism of the laboratories as the uncultured world outside. But being an idle house it was a hypochondriacal house, always running after cures. It would stop eating meat, not on valid Shelleyan grounds, but in order to get rid of a bogey called Uric Acid; and it would actually let you pull all its teeth out to exorcise another demon named Pyorrhea. It was superstitious, and addicted to table-rapping, materialization seances, clairvoyance, palmistry, crystal-gazing and the like to such an extent that it may be doubted whether ever before in the history of the world did soothsayers, astrologers, and unregistered therapeutic specialists of all sorts flourish as they did during this half century of the drift to the abyss. The registered doctors and surgeons were hard put to it to compete with the unregistered. They were not clever enough to appeal to the imagination and sociability of the Heartbreakers by the arts of the actor, the orator, the poet, the winning conversationalist. They had to fall back coarsely on the terror of infection and death. They prescribed inoculations and operations. Whatever part of a human being could be cut out without necessarily killing him they cut out; and he often died (unnecessarily of course) in consequence. From such trifles as uvulas and tonsils they went on to ovaries and appendices until at last no one's inside was safe. They explained that the human intestine was too long, and that nothing could make a child of Adam healthy except short circuiting the pylorus by cutting a length out of the lower intestine and fastening it directly to the stomach. As their mechanist theory taught them that medicine was the business of the chemist's laboratory, and surgery of the carpenter's shop, and also that Science (by which they meant their practices) was so important that no consideration for the interests of any individual creature, whether frog or philosopher, much less the vulgar commonplaces of sentimental ethics, could weigh for a moment against the remotest off-chance of an addition to the body of scientific knowledge, they operated and vivisected and inoculated and lied on a stupendous scale, clamoring for and actually acquiring such legal powers over the bodies of their fellow-citizens as neither king, pope, nor parliament dare ever have claimed. The Inquisition itself was a Liberal institution compared to the General Medical Council.

Now Heartbreak House, with Butler and Bergson and Scott Haldane alongside Blake and other major poets on its shelves (not to mention Wagner and the tone poets), wasn't as completely blinded by the dull materialism of laboratories as the uncultured world outside. But since it was an idle house, it was also a hypochondriacal one, always chasing after cures. It would stop eating meat, not based on valid Shelleyan reasons, but to get rid of a bogeyman called Uric Acid; and it would even let you pull all its teeth out to drive away another demon named Pyorrhea. It was superstitious and obsessed with table-rapping, materialization seances, clairvoyance, palmistry, crystal-gazing, and the like to such an extent that it’s questionable if there had ever been a time in history when soothsayers, astrologers, and unlicensed therapeutic specialists of all kinds thrived as they did during this half-century of decline. The registered doctors and surgeons were struggling to compete with the unregistered ones. They weren't skilled enough to appeal to the imagination and social nature of the Heartbreakers through the arts of acting, oratory, poetry, or engaging conversation. They had to rely bluntly on the fear of infection and death. They prescribed inoculations and surgeries. Whatever part of a human being could be taken out without necessarily killing them was removed, and often, they died (unnecessarily, of course) as a result. From trivial things like uvulas and tonsils, they moved on to ovaries and appendices until eventually, no one’s insides were safe. They argued that the human intestine was too long, and that nothing could make a child of Adam healthy except short-circuiting the pylorus by cutting out a length of the lower intestine and attaching it directly to the stomach. Since their mechanistic theory taught them that medicine was the realm of the chemist's lab, and surgery the carpenter's shop, and also that Science (which they meant their practices) was so crucial that no consideration for the interests of any individual creature, whether frog or philosopher, much less the mundane concerns of sentimental ethics, could outweigh even the slightest chance of adding to the body of scientific knowledge, they operated, vivisected, inoculated, and lied on a massive scale, clamoring for and actually gaining legal power over the bodies of their fellow citizens that neither king, pope, nor parliament would ever have dared claim. The Inquisition itself was a Liberal institution compared to the General Medical Council.

Those who do not know how to live must make a Merit of Dying

Those who don't know how to live have to find value in dying.

Heartbreak House was far too lazy and shallow to extricate itself from this palace of evil enchantment. It rhapsodized about love; but it believed in cruelty. It was afraid of the cruel people; and it saw that cruelty was at least effective. Cruelty did things that made money, whereas Love did nothing but prove the soundness of Larochefoucauld's saying that very few people would fall in love if they had never read about it. Heartbreak House, in short, did not know how to live, at which point all that was left to it was the boast that at least it knew how to die: a melancholy accomplishment which the outbreak of war presently gave it practically unlimited opportunities of displaying. Thus were the firstborn of Heartbreak House smitten; and the young, the innocent, the hopeful, expiated the folly and worthlessness of their elders.

Heartbreak House was too lazy and shallow to free itself from this palace of evil enchantment. It romanticized love, but it believed in cruelty. It was scared of the cruel people and recognized that cruelty was at least effective. Cruelty accomplished things that made money, while love did nothing but confirm Larochefoucauld's saying that very few people would fall in love if they had never read about it. In short, Heartbreak House didn’t know how to live, leaving it with nothing to boast about except that it at least knew how to die: a sad achievement that the outbreak of war soon provided it with almost unlimited chances to demonstrate. Thus, the firstborn of Heartbreak House were struck down, and the young, the innocent, the hopeful, paid the price for the foolishness and worthlessness of their elders.

War Delirium

War Hysteria

Only those who have lived through a first-rate war, not in the field, but at home, and kept their heads, can possibly understand the bitterness of Shakespeare and Swift, who both went through this experience. The horror of Peer Gynt in the madhouse, when the lunatics, exalted by illusions of splendid talent and visions of a dawning millennium, crowned him as their emperor, was tame in comparison. I do not know whether anyone really kept his head completely except those who had to keep it because they had to conduct the war at first hand. I should not have kept my own (as far as I did keep it) if I had not at once understood that as a scribe and speaker I too was under the most serious public obligation to keep my grip on realities; but this did not save me from a considerable degree of hyperaesthesia. There were of course some happy people to whom the war meant nothing: all political and general matters lying outside their little circle of interest. But the ordinary war-conscious civilian went mad, the main symptom being a conviction that the whole order of nature had been reversed. All foods, he felt, must now be adulterated. All schools must be closed. No advertisements must be sent to the newspapers, of which new editions must appear and be bought up every ten minutes. Travelling must be stopped, or, that being impossible, greatly hindered. All pretences about fine art and culture and the like must be flung off as an intolerable affectation; and the picture galleries and museums and schools at once occupied by war workers. The British Museum itself was saved only by a hair's breadth. The sincerity of all this, and of much more which would not be believed if I chronicled it, may be established by one conclusive instance of the general craziness. Men were seized with the illusion that they could win the war by giving away money. And they not only subscribed millions to Funds of all sorts with no discoverable object, and to ridiculous voluntary organizations for doing what was plainly the business of the civil and military authorities, but actually handed out money to any thief in the street who had the presence of mind to pretend that he (or she) was "collecting" it for the annihilation of the enemy. Swindlers were emboldened to take offices; label themselves Anti-Enemy Leagues; and simply pocket the money that was heaped on them. Attractively dressed young women found that they had nothing to do but parade the streets, collecting-box in hand, and live gloriously on the profits. Many months elapsed before, as a first sign of returning sanity, the police swept an Anti-Enemy secretary into prison pour encourages les autres, and the passionate penny collecting of the Flag Days was brought under some sort of regulation.

Only those who have experienced a major war from home, instead of the battlefield, and managed to stay sane can truly grasp the bitterness felt by Shakespeare and Swift, both of whom went through this ordeal. The terror of Peer Gynt in the madhouse, where delusional people, filled with grandiose ideas and visions of a bright future, crowned him their emperor, seems mild in comparison. I don’t know if anyone genuinely kept their composure except those who had to be in charge of the war directly. I wouldn’t have kept my own (as much as I did) if I hadn’t immediately realized that, as a writer and speaker, I also had a serious obligation to stay grounded in reality; but that didn’t spare me from feeling quite overwhelmed. Of course, there were some fortunate individuals for whom the war meant nothing, their political and general interests limited to their small circle. But the average war-aware civilian lost their mind, primarily believing that the entire natural order had flipped upside down. They felt that all food must now be tainted. All schools should be shut down. No ads should be placed in newspapers, which seemed to have new editions appearing and selling out every ten minutes. Travel needed to stop, or, if that was impossible, be severely restricted. All pretenses of fine art and culture had to be discarded as intolerable pretentiousness; galleries, museums, and schools were immediately taken over by war workers. The British Museum itself barely escaped that fate. The intensity of all this, and of much more I couldn’t possibly recount, can be proven by one striking example of the collective madness. People became convinced that the way to win the war was by giving away money. They not only donated millions to various funds with no clear purpose and joined laughable volunteer groups doing what should have been handled by the civil and military authorities, but they also gave money to any scam artist on the street who had the cleverness to claim they were collecting for the fight against the enemy. Scammers were bold enough to set up offices, call themselves Anti-Enemy Leagues, and simply pocket the cash that piled up. Fashionably dressed young women found that their only job was to walk the streets with collection boxes, living lavishly off the earnings. Many months passed before, as a sign of sanity returning, the police arrested an Anti-Enemy secretary to set an example, and the frantic penny-raising during Flag Days was brought under some form of regulation.

Madness in Court

Courtroom Chaos

The demoralization did not spare the Law Courts. Soldiers were acquitted, even on fully proved indictments for wilful murder, until at last the judges and magistrates had to announce that what was called the Unwritten Law, which meant simply that a soldier could do what he liked with impunity in civil life, was not the law of the land, and that a Victoria Cross did not carry with it a perpetual plenary indulgence. Unfortunately the insanity of the juries and magistrates did not always manifest itself in indulgence. No person unlucky enough to be charged with any sort of conduct, however reasonable and salutary, that did not smack of war delirium, had the slightest chance of acquittal. There were in the country, too, a certain number of people who had conscientious objections to war as criminal or unchristian. The Act of Parliament introducing Compulsory Military Service thoughtlessly exempted these persons, merely requiring them to prove the genuineness of their convictions. Those who did so were very ill-advised from the point of view of their own personal interest; for they were persecuted with savage logicality in spite of the law; whilst those who made no pretence of having any objection to war at all, and had not only had military training in Officers' Training Corps, but had proclaimed on public occasions that they were perfectly ready to engage in civil war on behalf of their political opinions, were allowed the benefit of the Act on the ground that they did not approve of this particular war. For the Christians there was no mercy. In cases where the evidence as to their being killed by ill treatment was so unequivocal that the verdict would certainly have been one of wilful murder had the prejudice of the coroner's jury been on the other side, their tormentors were gratuitously declared to be blameless. There was only one virtue, pugnacity: only one vice, pacifism. That is an essential condition of war; but the Government had not the courage to legislate accordingly; and its law was set aside for Lynch law.

The demoralization affected the Law Courts as well. Soldiers were cleared of charges, even in cases of proven willful murder, until the judges and magistrates had to make it clear that what was known as the Unwritten Law—meaning a soldier could act without consequence in civilian life—was not the law of the land, and that receiving a Victoria Cross didn’t grant a permanent pardon. Unfortunately, the irrationality of juries and magistrates didn’t always show up as leniency. Anyone unfortunate enough to face charges for reasonable and beneficial actions that didn’t align with war insanity had no chance of being acquitted. There were also a number of people in the country who had sincere objections to war as immoral or un-Christian. The Parliament Act introducing Compulsory Military Service carelessly exempted these individuals, only asking them to prove their convictions were genuine. Those who did were poorly advised from a personal standpoint, as they faced harsh persecution despite the law; meanwhile, those who made no claims of objecting to war and had not only received military training in Officers' Training Corps but also publicly stated they were ready to engage in civil war for their political beliefs were granted the benefits of the Act because they didn’t support this particular war. For Christians, there was no mercy. In cases where the evidence of their deaths due to mistreatment was so clear that the verdict would have inevitably been willful murder had the coroner's jury's bias been the other way, their abusers were unjustly deemed blameless. The only virtue was aggression; the only vice was pacifism. This is a fundamental aspect of war; but the Government lacked the courage to legislate accordingly, allowing its laws to be superseded by Lynch law.

The climax of legal lawlessness was reached in France. The greatest Socialist statesman in Europe, Jaures, was shot and killed by a gentleman who resented his efforts to avert the war. M. Clemenceau was shot by another gentleman of less popular opinions, and happily came off no worse than having to spend a precautionary couple of days in bed. The slayer of Jaures was recklessly acquitted: the would-be slayer of M. Clemenceau was carefully found guilty. There is no reason to doubt that the same thing would have happened in England if the war had begun with a successful attempt to assassinate Keir Hardie, and ended with an unsuccessful one to assassinate Mr Lloyd George.

The peak of legal chaos occurred in France. The most prominent Socialist politician in Europe, Jaures, was shot and killed by someone who was angry about his efforts to prevent the war. M. Clemenceau was shot by another person with less popular views, but fortunately, he only had to spend a couple of precautionary days in bed. The person who killed Jaures was recklessly found not guilty, while the person who tried to kill M. Clemenceau was thoroughly convicted. There's no reason to doubt that the same would have happened in England if the war had started with a successful assassination attempt on Keir Hardie and ended with an unsuccessful one on Mr. Lloyd George.

The Long Arm of War

The Extended Reach of War

The pestilence which is the usual accompaniment of war was called influenza. Whether it was really a war pestilence or not was made doubtful by the fact that it did its worst in places remote from the battlefields, notably on the west coast of North America and in India. But the moral pestilence, which was unquestionably a war pestilence, reproduced this phenomenon. One would have supposed that the war fever would have raged most furiously in the countries actually under fire, and that the others would be more reasonable. Belgium and Flanders, where over large districts literally not one stone was left upon another as the opposed armies drove each other back and forward over it after terrific preliminary bombardments, might have been pardoned for relieving their feelings more emphatically than by shrugging their shoulders and saying, "C'est la guerre." England, inviolate for so many centuries that the swoop of war on her homesteads had long ceased to be more credible than a return of the Flood, could hardly be expected to keep her temper sweet when she knew at last what it was to hide in cellars and underground railway stations, or lie quaking in bed, whilst bombs crashed, houses crumbled, and aircraft guns distributed shrapnel on friend and foe alike until certain shop windows in London, formerly full of fashionable hats, were filled with steel helmets. Slain and mutilated women and children, and burnt and wrecked dwellings, excuse a good deal of violent language, and produce a wrath on which many suns go down before it is appeased. Yet it was in the United States of America where nobody slept the worse for the war, that the war fever went beyond all sense and reason. In European Courts there was vindictive illegality: in American Courts there was raving lunacy. It is not for me to chronicle the extravagances of an Ally: let some candid American do that. I can only say that to us sitting in our gardens in England, with the guns in France making themselves felt by a throb in the air as unmistakeable as an audible sound, or with tightening hearts studying the phases of the moon in London in their bearing on the chances whether our houses would be standing or ourselves alive next morning, the newspaper accounts of the sentences American Courts were passing on young girls and old men alike for the expression of opinions which were being uttered amid thundering applause before huge audiences in England, and the more private records of the methods by which the American War Loans were raised, were so amazing that they put the guns and the possibilities of a raid clean out of our heads for the moment.

The disease that usually comes with war was called influenza. Whether it really was a war-related disease is questionable, as it struck hardest in places far from the battlefields, especially on the west coast of North America and in India. However, the moral crisis, which was definitely a product of the war, replicated this pattern. One would think that the war fervor would be strongest in the countries actually fighting, while others would be more rational. Belgium and Flanders, where vast areas were completely devastated as opposing armies advanced and retreated through intense bombardments, might be forgiven for expressing their feelings more intensely than simply shrugging and saying, "That's war." England, untouched for so many centuries that the idea of war reaching her shores seemed as unlikely as a return of the Flood, could hardly be expected to remain calm when she finally experienced the terror of hiding in cellars and subway stations or lying in bed in fear as bombs exploded, buildings collapsed, and shrapnel rained down indiscriminately, turning certain shop windows in London, once filled with trendy hats, into displays for steel helmets. The sight of slain and injured women and children, along with destroyed homes, justifies a lot of strong language and stirs up a rage that takes a long time to soothe. Yet it was in the United States, where no one felt the effects of the war, that the war fervor reached absurd levels. In European courts, there was rampant injustice; in American courts, there was outright madness. It’s not my place to detail the excesses of an Ally; let an honest American do that. I can only say that for us, sitting in our gardens in England, feeling the distant rumble of the guns in France as a palpable throb in the air or anxiously watching the moon phases in London to guess if our homes would still be standing or if we’d be alive the next morning, the newspaper reports of the sentences given by American courts to young girls and elderly men for expressing opinions that were met with thunderous applause in England, along with the more private stories of how American War Loans were raised, were so shocking that they completely overshadowed any thoughts of the guns and the potential for a raid, even if just for a moment.

The Rabid Watchdogs of Liberty

The Fierce Defenders of Freedom

Not content with these rancorous abuses of the existing law, the war maniacs made a frantic rush to abolish all constitutional guarantees of liberty and well-being. The ordinary law was superseded by Acts under which newspapers were seized and their printing machinery destroyed by simple police raids a la Russe, and persons arrested and shot without any pretence of trial by jury or publicity of procedure or evidence. Though it was urgently necessary that production should be increased by the most scientific organization and economy of labor, and though no fact was better established than that excessive duration and intensity of toil reduces production heavily instead of increasing it, the factory laws were suspended, and men and women recklessly over-worked until the loss of their efficiency became too glaring to be ignored. Remonstrances and warnings were met either with an accusation of pro-Germanism or the formula, "Remember that we are at war now." I have said that men assumed that war had reversed the order of nature, and that all was lost unless we did the exact opposite of everything we had found necessary and beneficial in peace. But the truth was worse than that. The war did not change men's minds in any such impossible way. What really happened was that the impact of physical death and destruction, the one reality that every fool can understand, tore off the masks of education, art, science and religion from our ignorance and barbarism, and left us glorying grotesquely in the licence suddenly accorded to our vilest passions and most abject terrors. Ever since Thucydides wrote his history, it has been on record that when the angel of death sounds his trumpet the pretences of civilization are blown from men's heads into the mud like hats in a gust of wind. But when this scripture was fulfilled among us, the shock was not the less appalling because a few students of Greek history were not surprised by it. Indeed these students threw themselves into the orgy as shamelessly as the illiterate. The Christian priest, joining in the war dance without even throwing off his cassock first, and the respectable school governor expelling the German professor with insult and bodily violence, and declaring that no English child should ever again be taught the language of Luther and Goethe, were kept in countenance by the most impudent repudiations of every decency of civilization and every lesson of political experience on the part of the very persons who, as university professors, historians, philosophers, and men of science, were the accredited custodians of culture. It was crudely natural, and perhaps necessary for recruiting purposes, that German militarism and German dynastic ambition should be painted by journalists and recruiters in black and red as European dangers (as in fact they are), leaving it to be inferred that our own militarism and our own political constitution are millennially democratic (which they certainly are not); but when it came to frantic denunciations of German chemistry, German biology, German poetry, German music, German literature, German philosophy, and even German engineering, as malignant abominations standing towards British and French chemistry and so forth in the relation of heaven to hell, it was clear that the utterers of such barbarous ravings had never really understood or cared for the arts and sciences they professed and were profaning, and were only the appallingly degenerate descendants of the men of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who, recognizing no national frontiers in the great realm of the human mind, kept the European comity of that realm loftily and even ostentatiously above the rancors of the battle-field. Tearing the Garter from the Kaiser's leg, striking the German dukes from the roll of our peerage, changing the King's illustrious and historically appropriate surname (for the war was the old war of Guelph against Ghibelline, with the Kaiser as Arch-Ghibelline) to that of a traditionless locality. One felt that the figure of St. George and the Dragon on our coinage should be replaced by that of the soldier driving his spear through Archimedes. But by that time there was no coinage: only paper money in which ten shillings called itself a pound as confidently as the people who were disgracing their country called themselves patriots.

Not satisfied with these harsh abuses of the current law, the war fanatics rushed to eliminate all constitutional guarantees of freedom and well-being. Regular laws were replaced by acts that allowed police to seize newspapers and destroy their printing equipment through simple raids, and people were arrested and shot without any pretense of a jury trial or public procedures or evidence. While it was crucial to increase production through the most efficient organization and labor economy, and while it was well established that working excessively long and hard decreases productivity instead of increasing it, factory regulations were ignored, and men and women were recklessly overworked until their declining efficiency became too obvious to overlook. Complaints and warnings were met with accusations of being pro-German or the phrase, "Remember that we are at war now." I have said that people believed that war had reversed the natural order and that all was lost unless we did the exact opposite of everything we found necessary and good in peacetime. But the reality was even worse. War didn't change people's minds in such an impossible way. What actually happened was that the impact of physical death and destruction—the one reality that anyone can grasp—stripped away the illusions of education, art, science, and religion from our ignorance and brutality, leaving us grotesquely reveling in the freedom suddenly given to our worst instincts and deepest fears. Ever since Thucydides wrote his history, it has been noted that when death strikes, the pretenses of civilization are blown off people's heads into the mud like hats caught in a gust of wind. But when this truth was realized among us, the shock was still shocking, even though a few students of Greek history weren't surprised. Indeed, these students plunged into the madness as shamelessly as the uneducated. The Christian priest joined in the war frenzy without even taking off his robe first, and the respectable school governor expelled the German professor with insults and physical violence, declaring that no English child should ever again be taught the language of Luther and Goethe, supported by the most brazen rejection of every decency of civilization and every lesson of political experience from those who, as university professors, historians, philosophers, and scientists, were supposed to protect culture. It was crudely natural, and perhaps necessary for recruitment purposes, that German militarism and dynastic ambition should be portrayed by journalists and recruiters in dark terms as European threats (which they are), implying that our own militarism and political system are millennia old and democratic (which they definitely are not); but when it came to frenzied attacks on German chemistry, biology, poetry, music, literature, philosophy, and even engineering, as evil abominations in stark contrast to British and French equivalents, it was clear that the people making such barbaric claims never truly understood or cared for the arts and sciences they were attacking and were merely the shockingly degenerate descendants of seventeenth and eighteenth-century individuals who, recognizing no national boundaries in the vast realm of human thought, upheld the European community in that realm proudly and even ostentatiously above the hatreds of the battlefield. Ripping the Garter from the Kaiser's leg, erasing the German dukes from our peerage, changing the King's illustrious and historically appropriate surname (since the war mirrored the old conflict of Guelph against Ghibelline, with the Kaiser as the Arch-Ghibelline) to something linked to a traditionless place. One felt that the image of St. George and the Dragon on our coins should be replaced by a soldier thrusting his spear through Archimedes. But by that time, there was no coinage—only paper money in which ten shillings confidently called itself a pound, just as the people disgracing their country called themselves patriots.

The Sufferings of the Sane

The Struggles of the Rational

The mental distress of living amid the obscene din of all these carmagnoles and corobberies was not the only burden that lay on sane people during the war. There was also the emotional strain, complicated by the offended economic sense, produced by the casualty lists. The stupid, the selfish, the narrow-minded, the callous and unimaginative were spared a great deal. "Blood and destruction shall be so in use that mothers shall but smile when they behold their infantes quartered by the hands of war," was a Shakespearean prophecy that very nearly came true; for when nearly every house had a slaughtered son to mourn, we should all have gone quite out of our senses if we had taken our own and our friend's bereavements at their peace value. It became necessary to give them a false value; to proclaim the young life worthily and gloriously sacrificed to redeem the liberty of mankind, instead of to expiate the heedlessness and folly of their fathers, and expiate it in vain. We had even to assume that the parents and not the children had made the sacrifice, until at last the comic papers were driven to satirize fat old men, sitting comfortably in club chairs, and boasting of the sons they had "given" to their country.

The mental strain of living amid the loud chaos of all these conflicts and crimes wasn't the only burden on sane people during the war. There was also the emotional toll, complicated by the economic upset caused by the casualty lists. The ignorant, selfish, narrow-minded, callous, and unimaginative were spared a lot. "Blood and destruction shall be so common that mothers shall smile when they see their babies harmed by the hands of war," was a prophecy from Shakespeare that almost came true; for when nearly every household had a son to mourn, we would have lost our minds if we treated our grief and our friends' losses with any sense of normalcy. It became necessary to assign a false value to these losses; to proclaim that young lives were honorably and gloriously sacrificed to secure the freedom of humanity, instead of being lost due to the carelessness and foolishness of their fathers, and wasted in the process. We even had to pretend that it was the parents making the sacrifice, not the children, until eventually, the comic papers made fun of fat old men sitting comfortably in club chairs, bragging about the sons they had “given” to their country.

No one grudged these anodynes to acute personal grief; but they only embittered those who knew that the young men were having their teeth set on edge because their parents had eaten sour political grapes. Then think of the young men themselves! Many of them had no illusions about the policy that led to the war: they went clear-sighted to a horribly repugnant duty. Men essentially gentle and essentially wise, with really valuable work in hand, laid it down voluntarily and spent months forming fours in the barrack yard, and stabbing sacks of straw in the public eye, so that they might go out to kill and maim men as gentle as themselves. These men, who were perhaps, as a class, our most efficient soldiers (Frederick Keeling, for example), were not duped for a moment by the hypocritical melodrama that consoled and stimulated the others. They left their creative work to drudge at destruction, exactly as they would have left it to take their turn at the pumps in a sinking ship. They did not, like some of the conscientious objectors, hold back because the ship had been neglected by its officers and scuttled by its wreckers. The ship had to be saved, even if Newton had to leave his fluxions and Michael Angelo his marbles to save it; so they threw away the tools of their beneficent and ennobling trades, and took up the blood-stained bayonet and the murderous bomb, forcing themselves to pervert their divine instinct for perfect artistic execution to the effective handling of these diabolical things, and their economic faculty for organization to the contriving of ruin and slaughter. For it gave an ironic edge to their tragedy that the very talents they were forced to prostitute made the prostitution not only effective, but even interesting; so that some of them were rapidly promoted, and found themselves actually becoming artists in wax, with a growing relish for it, like Napoleon and all the other scourges of mankind, in spite of themselves. For many of them there was not even this consolation. They "stuck it," and hated it, to the end.

No one resented these comforts for deep personal sorrow; but they only made bitter those who saw that the young men were suffering because their parents had faced sour political realities. Then think about the young men themselves! Many of them had no illusions about the policy that caused the war: they went into a horrifying duty with clear eyes. Men who were fundamentally gentle and wise, with truly meaningful work to do, voluntarily set it aside and spent months practicing in the barrack yard, stabbing sacks of straw in public, so they could go out and kill and injure men just like them. These men, who were probably our most effective soldiers (like Frederick Keeling, for instance), weren't fooled for a second by the hypocritical melodrama that comforted and motivated the others. They left their creative work to toil at destruction, just like they would have left it to take turns bailing water on a sinking ship. They didn’t hesitate like some conscientious objectors who stayed back because the ship had been neglected by its officers and sabotaged by its wreckers. The ship had to be saved, even if Newton had to abandon his calculus and Michelangelo his sculptures to do it; so they tossed aside the tools of their helpful and noble trades, picked up the blood-stained bayonet and the deadly bomb, forcing themselves to twist their divine instinct for perfect artistic execution into effectively handling these horrific things, and their skills in organization into devising chaos and slaughter. It added an ironic twist to their tragedy that the very talents they were forced to misuse made the misuse not only effective but even intriguing; so some of them quickly got promoted and found themselves becoming experts in death, strangely enjoying it, like Napoleon and all the other scourges of humanity, despite themselves. For many, there wasn’t even that consolation. They endured it and hated it to the end.

Evil in the Throne of Good

This distress of the gentle was so acute that those who shared it in civil life, without having to shed blood with their own hands, or witness destruction with their own eyes, hardly care to obtrude their own woes. Nevertheless, even when sitting at home in safety, it was not easy for those who had to write and speak about the war to throw away their highest conscience, and deliberately work to a standard of inevitable evil instead of to the ideal of life more abundant. I can answer for at least one person who found the change from the wisdom of Jesus and St. Francis to the morals of Richard III and the madness of Don Quixote extremely irksome. But that change had to be made; and we are all the worse for it, except those for whom it was not really a change at all, but only a relief from hypocrisy.

This pain of the gentle was so intense that those who experienced it in everyday life, without having to shed blood themselves or see destruction with their own eyes, hardly felt like sharing their own struggles. Still, even while sitting safely at home, it wasn't easy for those who had to write and talk about the war to ignore their higher values and instead work towards a standard of unavoidable evil rather than the ideal of a more abundant life. I can vouch for at least one person who found the shift from the teachings of Jesus and St. Francis to the morals of Richard III and the madness of Don Quixote incredibly frustrating. But that shift had to happen; and we are all the worse off for it, except for those who found it wasn't really a change for them at all, but just a relief from hypocrisy.

Think, too, of those who, though they had neither to write nor to fight, and had no children of their own to lose, yet knew the inestimable loss to the world of four years of the life of a generation wasted on destruction. Hardly one of the epoch-making works of the human mind might not have been aborted or destroyed by taking their authors away from their natural work for four critical years. Not only were Shakespeares and Platos being killed outright; but many of the best harvests of the survivors had to be sown in the barren soil of the trenches. And this was no mere British consideration. To the truly civilized man, to the good European, the slaughter of the German youth was as disastrous as the slaughter of the English. Fools exulted in "German losses." They were our losses as well. Imagine exulting in the death of Beethoven because Bill Sykes dealt him his death blow!

Think about those who, even though they didn’t have to write or fight and had no children of their own to lose, still understood the immeasurable loss to the world of four years taken from a generation wasted on destruction. Almost every groundbreaking work of the human mind might have been hindered or destroyed because their creators were taken away from their true work for four critical years. Not only were Shakespeares and Platos being killed outright, but many of the best contributions from the survivors had to be planted in the barren fields of the trenches. This wasn’t just a British concern. To a truly civilized person, to a good European, the slaughter of German youth was as tragic as the slaughter of the English. Idiots celebrated "German losses." They were our losses too. Can you imagine celebrating Beethoven’s death because Bill Sykes dealt him a fatal blow?

Straining at the Gnat and swallowing the Camel

Straining at the gnat and swallowing the camel

But most people could not comprehend these sorrows. There was a frivolous exultation in death for its own sake, which was at bottom an inability to realize that the deaths were real deaths and not stage ones. Again and again, when an air raider dropped a bomb which tore a child and its mother limb from limb, the people who saw it, though they had been reading with great cheerfulness of thousands of such happenings day after day in their newspapers, suddenly burst into furious imprecations on "the Huns" as murderers, and shrieked for savage and satisfying vengeance. At such moments it became clear that the deaths they had not seen meant no more to them than the mimic death of the cinema screen. Sometimes it was not necessary that death should be actually witnessed: it had only to take place under circumstances of sufficient novelty and proximity to bring it home almost as sensationally and effectively as if it had been actually visible.

But most people couldn't understand these sorrows. There was a shallow excitement about death for its own sake, which ultimately revealed a failure to grasp that these deaths were real and not just performances. Over and over, when an air raid dropped a bomb that torn a child and its mother apart, the witnesses, despite having read about thousands of similar events in their newspapers with a sense of cheer, would suddenly erupt in furious curses against "the Huns" as murderers and demand brutal and satisfying revenge. In those moments, it became obvious that the deaths they hadn’t seen meant no more to them than the fake deaths on a movie screen. Sometimes, it wasn't even necessary to actually witness death; it just had to occur in a way that was new and close enough to resonate almost as shockingly and effectively as if it had been seen right in front of them.

For example, in the spring of 1915 there was an appalling slaughter of our young soldiers at Neuve Chapelle and at the Gallipoli landing. I will not go so far as to say that our civilians were delighted to have such exciting news to read at breakfast. But I cannot pretend that I noticed either in the papers, or in general intercourse, any feeling beyond the usual one that the cinema show at the front was going splendidly, and that our boys were the bravest of the brave. Suddenly there came the news that an Atlantic liner, the Lusitania, had been torpedoed, and that several well-known first-class passengers, including a famous theatrical manager and the author of a popular farce, had been drowned, among others. The others included Sir Hugh Lane; but as he had only laid the country under great obligations in the sphere of the fine arts, no great stress was laid on that loss. Immediately an amazing frenzy swept through the country. Men who up to that time had kept their heads now lost them utterly. "Killing saloon passengers! What next?" was the essence of the whole agitation; but it is far too trivial a phrase to convey the faintest notion of the rage which possessed us. To me, with my mind full of the hideous cost of Neuve Chapelle, Ypres, and the Gallipoli landing, the fuss about the Lusitania seemed almost a heartless impertinence, though I was well acquainted personally with the three best-known victims, and understood, better perhaps than most people, the misfortune of the death of Lane. I even found a grim satisfaction, very intelligible to all soldiers, in the fact that the civilians who found the war such splendid British sport should get a sharp taste of what it was to the actual combatants. I expressed my impatience very freely, and found that my very straightforward and natural feeling in the matter was received as a monstrous and heartless paradox. When I asked those who gaped at me whether they had anything to say about the holocaust of Festubert, they gaped wider than before, having totally forgotten it, or rather, having never realized it. They were not heartless anymore than I was; but the big catastrophe was too big for them to grasp, and the little one had been just the right size for them. I was not surprised. Have I not seen a public body for just the same reason pass a vote for £30,000 without a word, and then spend three special meetings, prolonged into the night, over an item of seven shillings for refreshments?

For instance, in the spring of 1915, there was a horrific loss of our young soldiers at Neuve Chapelle and during the Gallipoli landing. I won’t claim that our civilians were thrilled to read such dramatic news at breakfast. But I can't deny that I didn't notice any reaction in the news or in general conversation beyond the typical impression that the war was being portrayed like a movie at the front and that our soldiers were the bravest of the brave. Then suddenly, we heard that the Atlantic liner, the Lusitania, had been torpedoed, and several well-known first-class passengers, including a famous theater manager and the author of a popular farce, had drowned, among others. Other victims included Sir Hugh Lane; however, since he had only given the country significant contributions in the arts, not much emphasis was placed on that loss. Almost immediately, an incredible frenzy spread across the country. Men who had remained calm until then completely lost their composure. “Killing passengers in a luxury liner! What’s next?” summed up the outrage, but it’s far too trivial a phrase to convey the intense rage we were feeling. For me, with my mind burdened by the horrific toll of Neuve Chapelle, Ypres, and Gallipoli, the uproar about the Lusitania felt almost like a cruel insensitivity, despite my personal connection to the three most notable victims and my understanding of the tragic loss of Lane. I even found a grim satisfaction, understandable to any soldier, in the fact that the civilians who enjoyed the war as thrilling British sport should experience a harsh reality of what it really meant for those actually fighting. I expressed my frustration openly and found that my honest and straightforward feelings on the matter were seen as an outrageous and heartless paradox. When I asked those who stared at me if they had anything to say about the massacre at Festubert, their eyes widened even more, as they had entirely forgotten it—or perhaps had never even grasped it. They weren’t heartless any more than I was; the massive catastrophe was simply too overwhelming for them to comprehend, while the smaller tragedy was just the right scale for their understanding. I wasn’t surprised. Haven't I seen a public body, for the same reason, vote to spend £30,000 without a second thought, yet then hold three lengthy meetings late into the night over an item of seven shillings for refreshments?

Little Minds and Big Battles

Little Minds, Big Battles

Nobody will be able to understand the vagaries of public feeling during the war unless they bear constantly in mind that the war in its entire magnitude did not exist for the average civilian. He could not conceive even a battle, much less a campaign. To the suburbs the war was nothing but a suburban squabble. To the miner and navvy it was only a series of bayonet fights between German champions and English ones. The enormity of it was quite beyond most of us. Its episodes had to be reduced to the dimensions of a railway accident or a shipwreck before it could produce any effect on our minds at all. To us the ridiculous bombardments of Scarborough and Ramsgate were colossal tragedies, and the battle of Jutland a mere ballad. The words "after thorough artillery preparation" in the news from the front meant nothing to us; but when our seaside trippers learned that an elderly gentleman at breakfast in a week-end marine hotel had been interrupted by a bomb dropping into his egg-cup, their wrath and horror knew no bounds. They declared that this would put a new spirit into the army; and had no suspicion that the soldiers in the trenches roared with laughter over it for days, and told each other that it would do the blighters at home good to have a taste of what the army was up against. Sometimes the smallness of view was pathetic. A man would work at home regardless of the call "to make the world safe for democracy." His brother would be killed at the front. Immediately he would throw up his work and take up the war as a family blood feud against the Germans. Sometimes it was comic. A wounded man, entitled to his discharge, would return to the trenches with a grim determination to find the Hun who had wounded him and pay him out for it.

Nobody will really grasp the ups and downs of public sentiment during the war unless they remember that, for the average civilian, the war didn’t feel like the massive event it was. They couldn’t even picture a battle, let alone a campaign. For people living in the suburbs, the war was just a neighborhood spat. To miners and laborers, it was merely a series of fights between German and English fighters. The sheer scale of it was completely beyond most of us. The events had to be scaled down to something relatable, like a train crash or a shipwreck, to impact us at all. For us, the absurd bombings at Scarborough and Ramsgate felt like huge tragedies, while the battle of Jutland seemed like just a song. Phrases like "after thorough artillery preparation" in front-line news meant nothing to us; however, when weekend visitors found out that an elderly man had his breakfast interrupted by a bomb landing in his egg cup, their anger and shock were limitless. They believed this would inspire the army, completely unaware that the soldiers in the trenches laughed about it for days, thinking it would be good for those at home to experience a bit of what the army faced. Sometimes the narrow perspective was sad. One man would keep working at home, indifferent to the call to "make the world safe for democracy." Then, if his brother got killed at the front, he would quit his job and take up the war as a personal vendetta against the Germans. At times it was even funny. A wounded soldier, eligible for discharge, would go back to the trenches with a grim determination to find the enemy who injured him and get revenge.

It is impossible to estimate what proportion of us, in khaki or out of it, grasped the war and its political antecedents as a whole in the light of any philosophy of history or knowledge of what war is. I doubt whether it was as high as our proportion of higher mathematicians. But there can be no doubt that it was prodigiously outnumbered by the comparatively ignorant and childish. Remember that these people had to be stimulated to make the sacrifices demanded by the war, and that this could not be done by appeals to a knowledge which they did not possess, and a comprehension of which they were incapable. When the armistice at last set me free to tell the truth about the war at the following general election, a soldier said to a candidate whom I was supporting, "If I had known all that in 1914, they would never have got me into khaki." And that, of course, was precisely why it had been necessary to stuff him with a romance that any diplomatist would have laughed at. Thus the natural confusion of ignorance was increased by a deliberately propagated confusion of nursery bogey stories and melodramatic nonsense, which at last overreached itself and made it impossible to stop the war before we had not only achieved the triumph of vanquishing the German army and thereby overthrowing its militarist monarchy, but made the very serious mistake of ruining the centre of Europe, a thing that no sane European State could afford to do.

It's impossible to say how many of us, in uniform or not, fully understood the war and its political background as a whole, through any philosophy of history or genuine knowledge of warfare. I doubt that the number was as high as our proportion of advanced mathematicians. But there’s no question that this understanding was hugely outnumbered by those who were relatively ignorant and naive. Keep in mind that these people needed motivation to make the sacrifices the war demanded, and that motivation couldn't come from knowledge that they didn’t have and couldn’t grasp. When the armistice finally allowed me to speak openly about the war during the following general election, a soldier told a candidate I was supporting, "If I had known all that back in 1914, they would never have gotten me into uniform." And that, of course, was exactly why it was necessary to fill him with a romanticized view that any diplomat would have laughed off. Therefore, the natural confusion of ignorance was magnified by a created confusion of childhood fears and dramatic nonsense, which ultimately led to a situation where it was impossible to end the war before we had not only defeated the German army and toppled its militaristic monarchy but also made the serious mistake of destroying the heart of Europe—a move that no rational European state could afford.

The Dumb Capables and the Noisy Incapables

The Smart People and the Loud Incompetents

Confronted with this picture of insensate delusion and folly, the critical reader will immediately counterplead that England all this time was conducting a war which involved the organization of several millions of fighting men and of the workers who were supplying them with provisions, munitions, and transport, and that this could not have been done by a mob of hysterical ranters. This is fortunately true. To pass from the newspaper offices and political platforms and club fenders and suburban drawing-rooms to the Army and the munition factories was to pass from Bedlam to the busiest and sanest of workaday worlds. It was to rediscover England, and find solid ground for the faith of those who still believed in her. But a necessary condition of this efficiency was that those who were efficient should give all their time to their business and leave the rabble raving to its heart's content. Indeed the raving was useful to the efficient, because, as it was always wide of the mark, it often distracted attention very conveniently from operations that would have been defeated or hindered by publicity. A precept which I endeavored vainly to popularize early in the war, "If you have anything to do go and do it: if not, for heaven's sake get out of the way," was only half carried out. Certainly the capable people went and did it; but the incapables would by no means get out of the way: they fussed and bawled and were only prevented from getting very seriously into the way by the blessed fact that they never knew where the way was. Thus whilst all the efficiency of England was silent and invisible, all its imbecility was deafening the heavens with its clamor and blotting out the sun with its dust. It was also unfortunately intimidating the Government by its blusterings into using the irresistible powers of the State to intimidate the sensible people, thus enabling a despicable minority of would-be lynchers to set up a reign of terror which could at any time have been broken by a single stern word from a responsible minister. But our ministers had not that sort of courage: neither Heartbreak House nor Horseback Hall had bred it, much less the suburbs. When matters at last came to the looting of shops by criminals under patriotic pretexts, it was the police force and not the Government that put its foot down. There was even one deplorable moment, during the submarine scare, in which the Government yielded to a childish cry for the maltreatment of naval prisoners of war, and, to our great disgrace, was forced by the enemy to behave itself. And yet behind all this public blundering and misconduct and futile mischief, the effective England was carrying on with the most formidable capacity and activity. The ostensible England was making the empire sick with its incontinences, its ignorances, its ferocities, its panics, and its endless and intolerable blarings of Allied national anthems in season and out. The esoteric England was proceeding irresistibly to the conquest of Europe.

Faced with this image of mindless delusion and foolishness, any critical reader would quickly argue that England had been fighting a war, which required the organization of millions of soldiers and the workers supplying them with food, weapons, and transportation, and that this couldn’t have been managed by a crowd of hysterical ranters. Fortunately, this is true. Moving from the newspaper offices and political stages to the Army and munitions factories was like going from madness to the most bustling and sensible part of everyday life. It was a chance to rediscover England and find solid ground for the faith of those who still believed in her. However, a crucial aspect of this efficiency was that those who were effective devoted all their time to their work, leaving the loudmouths to rant as much as they liked. In fact, the raving often helped those who were efficient because it was frequently off-target and distracted attention away from operations that could have been hindered by too much publicity. A principle I tried, in vain, to promote early in the war, "If you have something to do, go do it; if not, please get out of the way," was only partly followed. Certainly, the capable individuals went ahead and did it; but the inept ones refused to step aside: they fussed and yelled, and the only reason they didn’t seriously interfere was that they never knew where to find the way. Thus, while all of England’s efficiency remained silent and unseen, its incompetence was deafening, overwhelming everything with noise and confusion. It also unfortunately intimidated the Government into using the immense power of the State to silence sensible individuals, allowing a despicable minority of would-be lynchers to create a reign of terror, which could have been ended any time with a firm word from a responsible minister. But our ministers lacked that kind of courage; neither Heartbreak House nor Horseback Hall had cultivated it, and certainly not the suburbs. When things finally escalated to criminals looting shops under false patriotic justifications, it was the police force, not the Government, that took action. There was even one unfortunate moment during the submarine crisis when the Government yielded to a childish demand to mistreat naval prisoners of war, and, to our great shame, was forced by the enemy to behave properly. And yet behind all this public blundering, misconduct, and pointless trouble, effective England was operating with remarkable capacity and energy. The visible England was making the empire sick with its recklessness, ignorance, ferocity, panic, and its endless and unbearable noise of Allied national anthems at all times. The hidden England was steadily moving toward conquering Europe.

The Practical Business Men

The Practical Business People

From the beginning the useless people set up a shriek for "practical business men." By this they meant men who had become rich by placing their personal interests before those of the country, and measuring the success of every activity by the pecuniary profit it brought to them and to those on whom they depended for their supplies of capital. The pitiable failure of some conspicuous samples from the first batch we tried of these poor devils helped to give the whole public side of the war an air of monstrous and hopeless farce. They proved not only that they were useless for public work, but that in a well-ordered nation they would never have been allowed to control private enterprise.

Right from the start, the ineffective individuals started calling for "practical business people." By this, they meant those who got wealthy by prioritizing their own interests over the country's and judging every action based on the financial gains it brought them and those who provided them with capital. The sad failures of some prominent examples from the initial group we tried out of these unfortunate souls contributed to making the public side of the war feel like a ridiculous and hopeless joke. They showed not only that they were useless for public service but also that in a well-organized society, they would never have been allowed to oversee private business.

How the Fools shouted the Wise Men down

How the fools shouted down the wise men

Thus, like a fertile country flooded with mud, England showed no sign of her greatness in the days when she was putting forth all her strength to save herself from the worst consequences of her littleness. Most of the men of action, occupied to the last hour of their time with urgent practical work, had to leave to idler people, or to professional rhetoricians, the presentation of the war to the reason and imagination of the country and the world in speeches, poems, manifestoes, picture posters, and newspaper articles. I have had the privilege of hearing some of our ablest commanders talking about their work; and I have shared the common lot of reading the accounts of that work given to the world by the newspapers. No two experiences could be more different. But in the end the talkers obtained a dangerous ascendancy over the rank and file of the men of action; for though the great men of action are always inveterate talkers and often very clever writers, and therefore cannot have their minds formed for them by others, the average man of action, like the average fighter with the bayonet, can give no account of himself in words even to himself, and is apt to pick up and accept what he reads about himself and other people in the papers, except when the writer is rash enough to commit himself on technical points. It was not uncommon during the war to hear a soldier, or a civilian engaged on war work, describing events within his own experience that reduced to utter absurdity the ravings and maunderings of his daily paper, and yet echo the opinions of that paper like a parrot. Thus, to escape from the prevailing confusion and folly, it was not enough to seek the company of the ordinary man of action: one had to get into contact with the master spirits. This was a privilege which only a handful of people could enjoy. For the unprivileged citizen there was no escape. To him the whole country seemed mad, futile, silly, incompetent, with no hope of victory except the hope that the enemy might be just as mad. Only by very resolute reflection and reasoning could he reassure himself that if there was nothing more solid beneath their appalling appearances the war could not possibly have gone on for a single day without a total breakdown of its organization.

So, like a fertile country overwhelmed with mud, England showed no sign of her greatness during the times when she was doing everything she could to save herself from the worst effects of her smallness. Most of the people in charge, busy until the last moment with urgent practical tasks, had to leave it to less busy people, or professional speakers, to present the war to the reasoning and imagination of the country and the world through speeches, poems, manifestos, picture posters, and newspaper articles. I've had the privilege of hearing some of our most capable leaders discuss their work; and I've also gone through the usual experience of reading about that work in the newspapers. The two experiences couldn't be more different. But in the end, the speakers gained a dangerous influence over the average people who took action; because while great leaders are often enthusiastic speakers and frequently skilled writers, and thus can’t let others shape their thoughts, the average person of action, like the typical fighter with a bayonet, struggles to express himself in words even to himself, and tends to accept what he reads about himself and others in the news, unless the writer is foolish enough to make claims about technical matters. It wasn’t unusual during the war to hear a soldier or a civilian involved in war efforts describe events from his own experience that completely contradicted the nonsense in his daily paper, yet still repeat the paper's opinions like a parrot. So, to escape from the widespread chaos and foolishness, it wasn’t enough to just seek out the typical person of action: one had to connect with the leading minds. This was a privilege that only a select few could enjoy. For the average citizen, there was no escape. To him, the entire country appeared insane, pointless, silly, and incompetent, with no chance of victory except hoping the enemy was just as crazy. Only through very determined reflection and reasoning could he convince himself that if there wasn’t anything more solid beneath their shocking appearances, the war couldn’t possibly have continued for even a single day without a complete collapse of its organization.

The Mad Election

The Crazy Election

Happy were the fools and the thoughtless men of action in those days. The worst of it was that the fools were very strongly represented in parliament, as fools not only elect fools, but can persuade men of action to elect them too. The election that immediately followed the armistice was perhaps the maddest that has ever taken place. Soldiers who had done voluntary and heroic service in the field were defeated by persons who had apparently never run a risk or spent a farthing that they could avoid, and who even had in the course of the election to apologize publicly for bawling Pacifist or Pro-German at their opponent. Party leaders seek such followers, who can always be depended on to walk tamely into the lobby at the party whip's orders, provided the leader will make their seats safe for them by the process which was called, in derisive reference to the war rationing system, "giving them the coupon." Other incidents were so grotesque that I cannot mention them without enabling the reader to identify the parties, which would not be fair, as they were no more to blame than thousands of others who must necessarily be nameless. The general result was patently absurd; and the electorate, disgusted at its own work, instantly recoiled to the opposite extreme, and cast out all the coupon candidates at the earliest bye-elections by equally silly majorities. But the mischief of the general election could not be undone; and the Government had not only to pretend to abuse its European victory as it had promised, but actually to do it by starving the enemies who had thrown down their arms. It had, in short, won the election by pledging itself to be thriftlessly wicked, cruel, and vindictive; and it did not find it as easy to escape from this pledge as it had from nobler ones. The end, as I write, is not yet; but it is clear that this thoughtless savagery will recoil on the heads of the Allies so severely that we shall be forced by the sternest necessity to take up our share of healing the Europe we have wounded almost to death instead of attempting to complete her destruction.

Fools and careless doers had a good time back then. The worst part was that fools had a strong presence in parliament, as fools not only elect fellow fools but can also persuade doers to vote for them. The election right after the armistice was probably the craziest ever. Soldiers who had fought bravely and voluntarily were defeated by people who seemed to have never taken a risk or spent a dime they didn’t have to, and who even had to publicly apologize during the election for calling their opponent Pacifist or Pro-German. Party leaders seek out these kinds of followers, who can always be counted on to obediently follow the party line, as long as the leader secures their seats through what was mockingly called "giving them the coupon," referencing the war rationing system. Other incidents were so ridiculous that I can’t mention them without letting you guess who they are, which wouldn’t be fair since they were no more at fault than countless others. The overall outcome was obviously absurd; the voters, disgusted with their own choices, quickly swung to the opposite side and rejected all the coupon candidates in the first by-elections by equally ridiculous margins. But the damage from the general election couldn’t be reversed; the government had to pretend to be harsh on its European victory as it had promised, but actually had to do it by starving the enemies who had surrendered. In short, it won the election by promising to be recklessly evil, cruel, and vindictive; and it found escaping this promise much harder than getting away from nobler ones. The end, as I write this, isn’t here yet; but it’s clear that this thoughtless brutality will hit the Allies hard enough that we’ll have no choice but to help heal the Europe we’ve nearly destroyed instead of trying to finish the job.

The Yahoo and the Angry Ape

Contemplating this picture of a state of mankind so recent that no denial of its truth is possible, one understands Shakespeare comparing Man to an angry ape, Swift describing him as a Yahoo rebuked by the superior virtue of the horse, and Wellington declaring that the British can behave themselves neither in victory nor defeat. Yet none of the three had seen war as we have seen it. Shakespeare blamed great men, saying that "Could great men thunder as Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet; for every pelting petty officer would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder." What would Shakespeare have said if he had seen something far more destructive than thunder in the hand of every village laborer, and found on the Messines Ridge the craters of the nineteen volcanoes that were let loose there at the touch of a finger that might have been a child's finger without the result being a whit less ruinous? Shakespeare may have seen a Stratford cottage struck by one of Jove's thunderbolts, and have helped to extinguish the lighted thatch and clear away the bits of the broken chimney. What would he have said if he had seen Ypres as it is now, or returned to Stratford, as French peasants are returning to their homes to-day, to find the old familiar signpost inscribed "To Stratford, 1 mile," and at the end of the mile nothing but some holes in the ground and a fragment of a broken churn here and there? Would not the spectacle of the angry ape endowed with powers of destruction that Jove never pretended to, have beggared even his command of words?

Thinking about this image of humanity, so recent that no one can deny its truth, makes you understand why Shakespeare compared Man to an angry ape, Swift described him as a Yahoo shamed by the greater virtue of the horse, and Wellington stated that the British can't behave properly in either victory or defeat. Yet none of the three witnessed war as we've experienced it. Shakespeare blamed great men, saying that "If great men could thunder like Jove himself, Jove would never be at rest; because every petty officer would misuse his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder." What would Shakespeare have said if he had seen something far more devastating than thunder in the hands of every village worker and found on the Messines Ridge the craters of the nineteen volcanoes unleashed there at the touch of a finger that could have belonged to a child, with the result being no less catastrophic? Shakespeare may have seen a cottage in Stratford struck by one of Jove's thunderbolts and helped put out the burning thatch and clean up the broken chimney. What would he have thought if he had seen Ypres as it is today, or returned to Stratford, like French peasants are returning to their homes now, only to find the familiar signpost reading "To Stratford, 1 mile," and at the end of that mile, just some holes in the ground and a piece of a broken churn here and there? Wouldn't the sight of the angry ape, given destructive powers that Jove never claimed, have left him at a loss for words?

And yet, what is there to say except that war puts a strain on human nature that breaks down the better half of it, and makes the worse half a diabolical virtue? Better, for us if it broke it down altogether, for then the warlike way out of our difficulties would be barred to us, and we should take greater care not to get into them. In truth, it is, as Byron said, "not difficult to die," and enormously difficult to live: that explains why, at bottom, peace is not only better than war, but infinitely more arduous. Did any hero of the war face the glorious risk of death more bravely than the traitor Bolo faced the ignominious certainty 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 soldier who braved death in the field so recklessly that he was decorated or specially commended for it, being haled before our magistrates for having failed to resist the paltriest temptations of peace, with no better excuse than the old one that "a man must live." Strange that one who, sooner than do honest work, will sell his honor for a bottle of wine, a visit to the theatre, and an hour with a strange woman, all obtained by passing a worthless cheque, could yet stake his life on the most desperate chances of the battle-field! Does it not seem as if, after all, the glory of death were cheaper than the glory of life? If it is not easier to attain, why do so many more men attain it? At all events it is clear that the kingdom of the Prince of Peace has not yet become the kingdom of this world. His attempts at invasion have been resisted far more fiercely than the Kaiser's. Successful as that resistance has been, it has piled up a sort of National Debt that is not the less oppressive because we have no figures for it and do not intend to pay it. A blockade that cuts off "the grace of our Lord" is in the long run less bearable than the blockades which merely cut off raw materials; and against that blockade our Armada is impotent. In the blockader's house, he has assured us, there are many mansions; but I am afraid they do not include either Heartbreak House or Horseback Hall.

And yet, what is there to say except that war puts a strain on human nature that breaks down the better part of it, making the worse part a twisted virtue? It would be better for us if it broke it down entirely, because then the combative approach to our problems would be off the table, and we’d be more careful not to get into those situations. In truth, as Byron said, "it’s not hard to die," but it’s incredibly hard to live: that explains why, fundamentally, peace is not just better than war, but infinitely more challenging. Did any hero from the war confront the glorious risk of death more courageously than the traitor Bolo confronted the shameful certainty of it? Bolo showed us all how to die: can we say he taught us how to live? Hardly a week goes by without some soldier who faced death in battle so recklessly that he was decorated or praised for it, being brought before our judges for failing to resist the smallest temptations of peace, with no better excuse than the old one that "a man has to live." It’s strange that someone who would rather sell his honor for a bottle of wine, a night at the theater, and an hour with a stranger, all by passing a worthless check, could still risk his life in the most desperate chances of a battlefield! Doesn't it seem like, after all, that the glory of death is cheaper than the glory of life? If it’s not easier to achieve, why do so many more men accomplish it? In any case, it’s clear that the kingdom of the Prince of Peace has not yet become the kingdom of this world. His attempts at taking over have been met with far fiercer resistance than the Kaiser’s. Successful as that resistance has been, it has created a kind of National Debt that is no less burdensome because we have no figures for it and don’t plan to pay it. A blockade that cuts off "the grace of our Lord" is ultimately less bearable than blockades that just cut off raw materials; and against that blockade, our Armada is helpless. The blockader has assured us that there are many mansions in his house; but I’m afraid they do not include either Heartbreak House or Horseback Hall.

Plague on Both your Houses!

A pox on both your houses!

Meanwhile the Bolshevist picks and petards are at work on the foundations of both buildings; and though the Bolshevists may be buried in the ruins, their deaths will not save the edifices. Unfortunately they can be built again. Like Doubting Castle, they have been demolished many times by successive Greathearts, and rebuilt by Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, by Feeble Mind and Much Afraid, and by all the jurymen of Vanity Fair. Another generation of "secondary education" at our ancient public schools and the cheaper institutions that ape them will be quite sufficient to keep the two going until the next war. For the instruction of that generation I leave these pages as a record of what civilian life was during the war: a matter on which history is usually silent. Fortunately it was a very short war. It is true that the people who thought it could not last more than six months were very signally refuted by the event. As Sir Douglas Haig has pointed out, its Waterloos lasted months instead of hours. But there would have been nothing surprising in its lasting thirty years. If it had not been for the fact that the blockade achieved the amazing feat of starving out Europe, which it could not possibly have done had Europe been properly organized for war, or even for peace, the war would have lasted until the belligerents were so tired of it that they could no longer be compelled to compel themselves to go on with it. Considering its magnitude, the war of 1914-18 will certainly be classed as the shortest in history. The end came so suddenly that the combatant literally stumbled over it; and yet it came a full year later than it should have come if the belligerents had not been far too afraid of one another to face the situation sensibly. Germany, having failed to provide for the war she began, failed again to surrender before she was dangerously exhausted. Her opponents, equally improvident, went as much too close to bankruptcy as Germany to starvation. It was a bluff at which both were bluffed. And, with the usual irony of war, it remains doubtful whether Germany and Russia, the defeated, will not be the gainers; for the victors are already busy fastening on themselves the chains they have struck from the limbs of the vanquished.

Meanwhile, the Bolshevik squads and explosives are working on the foundations of both buildings; and even though the Bolsheviks might be buried in the rubble, their deaths won’t prevent the structures from being rebuilt. Unfortunately, they can be reconstructed. Like Doubting Castle, they have been torn down many times by various heroes and rebuilt by the lazy, the careless, and the presumptuous, by the weak-minded and the overly fearful, and by all the jurors of Vanity Fair. Another generation of "secondary education" at our historic public schools and the cheaper versions that imitate them will be enough to keep the two going until the next war. I leave these pages as a record of what civilian life was like during the war: a topic that history often overlooks. Fortunately, it was a very short war. It’s true that those who believed it wouldn’t last more than six months were proven wrong by events. As Sir Douglas Haig pointed out, its decisive battles lasted months instead of hours. But it wouldn’t have been surprising if it had lasted thirty years. If it hadn’t been for the blockade that managed to starve Europe—something it couldn’t have done if Europe had been organized for war or even peace—the war would have continued until both sides were too exhausted to keep fighting. Given its scale, the war of 1914-18 will likely be considered the shortest in history. The end came so abruptly that the combatants literally stumbled into it; yet it occurred a full year later than it should have if the warring sides hadn't been too afraid of each other to face the situation rationally. Germany, failing to prepare for the war she started, again failed to surrender before she was dangerously worn out. Her opponents, equally unprepared, came dangerously close to bankruptcy just as Germany did to starvation. It was a game of bluff in which both sides were deceived. And, with the usual irony of war, it remains uncertain whether Germany and Russia, the defeated ones, won't end up being the ones who benefit; because the victors are already busy chaining themselves with the shackles they removed from the defeated.

How the Theatre fared

How the Theater did

Let us now contract our view rather violently from the European theatre of war to the theatre in which the fights are sham fights, and the slain, rising the moment the curtain has fallen, go comfortably home to supper after washing off their rose-pink wounds. It is nearly twenty years since I was last obliged to introduce a play in the form of a book for lack of an opportunity of presenting it in its proper mode by a performance in a theatre. The war has thrown me back on this expedient. Heartbreak House has not yet reached the stage. I have withheld it because the war has completely upset the economic conditions which formerly enabled serious drama to pay its way in London. The change is not in the theatres nor in the management of them, nor in the authors and actors, but in the audiences. For four years the London theatres were crowded every night with thousands of soldiers on leave from the front. These soldiers were not seasoned London playgoers. A childish experience of my own gave me a clue to their condition. When I was a small boy I was taken to the opera. I did not then know what an opera was, though I could whistle a good deal of opera music. I had seen in my mother's album photographs of all the great opera singers, mostly in evening dress. In the theatre I found myself before a gilded balcony filled with persons in evening dress whom I took to be the opera singers. I picked out one massive dark lady as Alboni, and wondered how soon she would stand up and sing. I was puzzled by the fact that I was made to sit with my back to the singers instead of facing them. When the curtain went up, my astonishment and delight were unbounded.

Let’s now sharply shift our focus from the European battlefield to a place where the fights are just pretend, and the fallen rise as soon as the curtain falls, heading home for dinner after cleaning off their rose-pink wounds. It’s been nearly twenty years since I last had to introduce a play in book form because I couldn’t present it properly with a performance in a theater. The war has forced me back to this option. Heartbreak House hasn’t made it to the stage yet. I've delayed it because the war has completely disrupted the economic conditions that used to allow serious drama to thrive in London. The change isn’t in the theaters, the management, the authors, or the actors, but in the audiences. For four years, London theaters were packed every night with thousands of soldiers on leave from the front. These soldiers weren’t seasoned London theatergoers. A childhood experience of mine gave me some insight into their situation. When I was a little boy, I was taken to the opera. I didn’t know what an opera was, although I could whistle quite a bit of opera music. I had seen photos of all the famous opera singers in my mother’s album, mostly in evening dress. In the theater, I found myself in front of a gilded balcony full of people in evening dress, whom I assumed were the opera singers. I spotted one large dark lady and thought she must be Alboni, and I wondered how soon she would stand up to sing. I was confused as to why I had to sit with my back to the singers instead of facing them. When the curtain rose, my astonishment and delight were beyond words.

The Soldier at the Theatre Front

In 1915, I saw in the theatres men in khaki in just the same predicament. To everyone who had my clue to their state of mind it was evident that they had never been in a theatre before and did not know what it was. At one of our great variety theatres I sat beside a young officer, not at all a rough specimen, who, even when the curtain rose and enlightened him as to the place where he had to look for his entertainment, found the dramatic part of it utterly incomprehensible. He did not know how to play his part of the game. He could understand the people on the stage singing and dancing and performing gymnastic feats. He not only understood but intensely enjoyed an artist who imitated cocks crowing and pigs squeaking. But the people who pretended that they were somebody else, and that the painted picture behind them was real, bewildered him. In his presence I realized how very sophisticated the natural man has to become before the conventions of the theatre can be easily acceptable, or the purpose of the drama obvious to him.

In 1915, I saw men in khaki in the same situation at the theaters. To anyone who understood their mindset, it was clear that they had never been to a theater before and had no clue what it was about. At one of our big variety theaters, I sat next to a young officer, who was not at all rough around the edges. Even when the curtain rose and showed him where to look for entertainment, he found the dramatic part completely confusing. He didn’t know how to engage with it. He could follow the performers singing, dancing, and doing acrobatic tricks. He not only understood but really enjoyed an act where an artist imitated roosters crowing and pigs squealing. But the people pretending to be someone else, and the painted backdrop behind them that they acted as if it were real, puzzled him. Being with him made me realize just how sophisticated a person needs to be before the conventions of the theater become easily acceptable or the purpose of the drama is clear.

Well, from the moment when the routine of leave for our soldiers was established, such novices, accompanied by damsels (called flappers) often as innocent as themselves, crowded the theatres to the doors. It was hardly possible at first to find stuff crude enough to nurse them on. The best music-hall comedians ransacked their memories for the oldest quips and the most childish antics to avoid carrying the military spectators out of their depth. I believe that this was a mistake as far as the novices were concerned. Shakespeare, or the dramatized histories of George Barnwell, Maria Martin, or the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, would probably have been quite popular with them. But the novices were only a minority after all. The cultivated soldier, who in time of peace would look at nothing theatrical except the most advanced postIbsen plays in the most artistic settings, found himself, to his own astonishment, thirsting for silly jokes, dances, and brainlessly sensuous exhibitions of pretty girls. The author of some of the most grimly serious plays of our time told me that after enduring the trenches for months without a glimpse of the female of his species, it gave him an entirely innocent but delightful pleasure merely to see a flapper. The reaction from the battle-field produced a condition of hyperaesthesia in which all the theatrical values were altered. Trivial things gained intensity and stale things novelty. The actor, instead of having to coax his audiences out of the boredom which had driven them to the theatre in an ill humor to seek some sort of distraction, had only to exploit the bliss of smiling men who were no longer under fire and under military discipline, but actually clean and comfortable and in a mood to be pleased with anything and everything that a bevy of pretty girls and a funny man, or even a bevy of girls pretending to be pretty and a man pretending to be funny, could do for them.

Well, from the moment the leave routine for our soldiers was set up, inexperienced troops, often joined by naive girls (called flappers), packed the theaters. At first, it was almost impossible to find material that was silly enough for them. The best music-hall comedians dug deep into their memories for the oldest jokes and most childish antics to keep the military audience entertained without confusing them. I think this was a mistake for the newcomers. Shakespeare, or the dramatized tales of George Barnwell, Maria Martin, or the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, would probably have appealed to them. But in the end, the novices were just a minority. The sophisticated soldier, who in peacetime would only consider watching the most avant-garde Ibsen plays in the most artistic venues, found himself surprisingly craving silly jokes, dancing, and mindless shows featuring attractive girls. The author of some of the most serious plays of our time told me that after spending months in the trenches without seeing any women, it gave him sheer, innocent joy just to see a flapper. The shift from the battlefield created a state of heightened sensitivity where all theatrical values changed. Mundane things became intense, and stale things felt fresh. The actor didn’t have to pull the audience out of the boredom that had driven them to the theater in a bad mood; he just had to tap into the happiness of smiling men who were no longer under fire or strict military discipline, but were clean, comfortable, and ready to enjoy anything and everything that a group of pretty girls and a funny man, or even a group of girls pretending to be pretty and a man pretending to be funny, could offer them.

Then could be seen every night in the theatres oldfashioned farcical comedies, in which a bedroom, with four doors on each side and a practicable window in the middle, was understood to resemble exactly the bedroom in the flats beneath and above, all three inhabited by couples consumed with jealousy. When these people came home drunk at night; mistook their neighbor's flats for their own; and in due course got into the wrong beds, it was not only the novices who found the resulting complications and scandals exquisitely ingenious and amusing, nor their equally verdant flappers who could not help squealing in a manner that astonished the oldest performers when the gentleman who had just come in drunk through the window pretended to undress, and allowed glimpses of his naked person to be descried from time to time.

Every night in the theaters, you could see old-fashioned farcical comedies, where a bedroom with four doors on each side and a functional window in the middle was supposed to look just like the bedrooms in the flats above and below, all three occupied by jealous couples. When these people came home drunk at night, mistook their neighbor's flats for their own, and eventually ended up in the wrong beds, it wasn't just the newcomers who found the resulting complications and scandals wonderfully clever and funny. Even their equally naïve friends couldn't help but squeal in a way that surprised the veteran performers when the guy who had just climbed in through the window pretended to undress and occasionally gave everyone a glimpse of his naked body.

Heartbreak House

Men who had just read the news that Charles Wyndham was dying, and were thereby sadly reminded of Pink Dominos and the torrent of farcical comedies that followed it in his heyday until every trick of that trade had become so stale that the laughter they provoked turned to loathing: these veterans also, when they returned from the field, were as much pleased by what they knew to be stale and foolish as the novices by what they thought fresh and clever.

Men who had just read the news that Charles Wyndham was dying were sadly reminded of Pink Dominos and the wave of silly comedies that came after it during his prime, until every trick of that trade became so overused that the laughter it caused turned to disgust. These veterans, when they returned from the field, were just as pleased by what they recognized as old and foolish as the newcomers were by what they believed was new and clever.

Commerce in the Theatre

Theater Commerce

Wellington said that an army moves on its belly. So does a London theatre. Before a man acts he must eat. Before he performs plays he must pay rent. In London we have no theatres for the welfare of the people: they are all for the sole purpose of producing the utmost obtainable rent for the proprietor. If the twin flats and twin beds produce a guinea more than Shakespeare, out goes Shakespeare and in come the twin flats and the twin beds. If the brainless bevy of pretty girls and the funny man outbid Mozart, out goes Mozart.

Wellington said that an army runs on its stomach. So does a London theater. Before a man takes the stage, he needs to eat. Before putting on performances, he has to pay the rent. In London, we don’t have theaters for the people's benefit: they’re all focused on generating the highest possible rent for the owner. If the two-bedroom flats and double beds make a guinea more than Shakespeare, Shakespeare gets kicked out and the two-bedroom flats and double beds go in. If a group of attractive, talentless girls and a comedian can outbid Mozart, then Mozart is out.

Unser Shakespeare

Our Shakespeare

Before the war an effort was made to remedy this by establishing a national theatre in celebration of the tercentenary of the death of Shakespeare. A committee was formed; and all sorts of illustrious and influential persons lent their names to a grand appeal to our national culture. My play, The Dark Lady of The Sonnets, was one of the incidents of that appeal. After some years of effort the result was a single handsome subscription from a German gentleman. Like the celebrated swearer in the anecdote when the cart containing all his household goods lost its tailboard at the top of the hill and let its contents roll in ruin to the bottom, I can only say, "I cannot do justice to this situation," and let it pass without another word.

Before the war, there was an effort to fix this by creating a national theater to honor the 300th anniversary of Shakespeare's death. A committee was formed, and many well-known and influential people supported a major appeal for our national culture. My play, The Dark Lady of The Sonnets, was part of that appeal. After several years of effort, the outcome was a single generous donation from a German gentleman. Like the famous story of the person who, after their cart full of belongings lost its tailgate at the top of a hill and sent everything crashing down, I can only say, "I can't do justice to this situation," and leave it at that.

The Higher Drama put out of Action

The Higher Drama taken out of action

The effect of the war on the London theatres may now be imagined. The beds and the bevies drove every higher form of art out of it. Rents went up to an unprecedented figure. At the same time prices doubled everywhere except at the theatre pay-boxes, and raised the expenses of management to such a degree that unless the houses were quite full every night, profit was impossible. Even bare solvency could not be attained without a very wide popularity. Now what had made serious drama possible to a limited extent before the war was that a play could pay its way even if the theatre were only half full until Saturday and three-quarters full then. A manager who was an enthusiast and a desperately hard worker, with an occasional grant-in-aid from an artistically disposed millionaire, and a due proportion of those rare and happy accidents by which plays of the higher sort turn out to be potboilers as well, could hold out for some years, by which time a relay might arrive in the person of another enthusiast. Thus and not otherwise occurred that remarkable revival of the British drama at the beginning of the century which made my own career as a playwright possible in England. In America I had already established myself, not as part of the ordinary theatre system, but in association with the exceptional genius of Richard Mansfield. In Germany and Austria I had no difficulty: the system of publicly aided theatres there, Court and Municipal, kept drama of the kind I dealt in alive; so that I was indebted to the Emperor of Austria for magnificent productions of my works at a time when the sole official attention paid me by the British Courts was the announcement to the English-speaking world that certain plays of mine were unfit for public performance, a substantial set-off against this being that the British Court, in the course of its private playgoing, paid no regard to the bad character given me by the chief officer of its household.

The impact of the war on the London theaters can be easily imagined. The struggles and the crowds pushed out every higher form of art. Rents skyrocketed to unprecedented levels. At the same time, prices doubled everywhere except at the theater box offices, raising management costs to the point where profits were impossible unless the houses were completely full every night. Even basic financial stability was hard to achieve without a broad appeal. Before the war, serious drama could still be viable with only half the seats filled until Saturday and three-quarters full then. A dedicated and hard-working manager, sometimes supported by a generous millionaire, and a fair share of those rare, lucky breaks that turned serious plays into crowd-pleasers, could keep going for several years, by which time another enthusiastic manager might step in. This is how the remarkable revival of British drama at the start of the century occurred, making my career as a playwright in England possible. In America, I had already made a name for myself, not as part of the standard theater system, but through my association with the extraordinary talent of Richard Mansfield. In Germany and Austria, I faced no challenges: the publicly funded theaters there, both Court and Municipal, kept the type of drama I worked on alive; I owed great productions of my works to the Emperor of Austria at a time when the only official recognition I received from the British Courts was the announcement to the English-speaking world that certain plays of mine were deemed unsuitable for public performance. The offset, however, was that during their private theater visits, the British Court ignored the negative reputation given to me by the chief officer of its household.

Howbeit, the fact that my plays effected a lodgment on the London stage, and were presently followed by the plays of Granville Barker, Gilbert Murray, John Masefield, St. John Hankin, Lawrence Housman, Arnold Bennett, John Galsworthy, John Drinkwater, and others which would in the nineteenth century have stood rather less chance of production at a London theatre than the Dialogues of Plato, not to mention revivals of the ancient Athenian drama and a restoration to the stage of Shakespeare's plays as he wrote them, was made economically possible solely by a supply of theatres which could hold nearly twice as much money as it cost to rent and maintain them. In such theatres work appealing to a relatively small class of cultivated persons, and therefore attracting only from half to three-quarters as many spectators as the more popular pastimes, could nevertheless keep going in the hands of young adventurers who were doing it for its own sake, and had not yet been forced by advancing age and responsibilities to consider the commercial value of their time and energy too closely. The war struck this foundation away in the manner I have just described. The expenses of running the cheapest west-end theatres rose to a sum which exceeded by twenty-five per cent the utmost that the higher drama can, as an ascertained matter of fact, be depended on to draw. Thus the higher drama, which has never really been a commercially sound speculation, now became an impossible one. Accordingly, attempts are being made to provide a refuge for it in suburban theatres in London and repertory theatres in the provinces. But at the moment when the army has at last disgorged the survivors of the gallant band of dramatic pioneers whom it swallowed, they find that the economic conditions which formerly made their work no worse than precarious now put it out of the question altogether, as far as the west end of London is concerned.

However, the fact that my plays made a place on the London stage, and were soon followed by the works of Granville Barker, Gilbert Murray, John Masefield, St. John Hankin, Lawrence Housman, Arnold Bennett, John Galsworthy, John Drinkwater, and others, which in the nineteenth century would have had much less chance of being produced in a London theater than the Dialogues of Plato, not to mention revivals of ancient Athenian drama and bringing Shakespeare's plays back to the stage as he originally wrote them, was economically possible only because there was a supply of theaters that could hold nearly twice as much money as it cost to rent and maintain them. In such theaters, work appealing to a relatively small group of cultured individuals, and therefore drawing only half to three-quarters as many spectators as more popular entertainments, could still thrive in the hands of young adventurers who pursued it for its own sake and hadn't yet been forced by age and responsibilities to closely consider the commercial value of their time and energy. The war destroyed this foundation in the way I just described. The costs of running the cheapest West End theaters increased to a point that was twenty-five percent higher than what the higher drama could realistically be counted on to earn. Thus, the higher drama, which has never really been a sound commercial venture, became utterly impossible. Consequently, efforts are being made to provide a space for it in suburban theaters in London and repertory theaters in the provinces. But now that the army has finally released the survivors of the brave group of dramatic pioneers it took in, they find that the economic conditions that previously made their work at least somewhat viable now make it completely unfeasible, at least concerning the West End of London.

Church and Theatre

Church and Theater

I do not suppose many people care particularly. We are not brought up to care; and a sense of the national importance of the theatre is not born in mankind: the natural man, like so many of the soldiers at the beginning of the war, does not know what a theatre is. But please note that all these soldiers who did not know what a theatre was, knew what a church was. And they had been taught to respect churches. Nobody had ever warned them against a church as a place where frivolous women paraded in their best clothes; where stories of improper females like Potiphar's wife, and erotic poetry like the Song of Songs, were read aloud; where the sensuous and sentimental music of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Gounod, and Brahms was more popular than severe music by greater composers; where the prettiest sort of pretty pictures of pretty saints assailed the imagination and senses through stained-glass windows; and where sculpture and architecture came to the help of painting. Nobody ever reminded them that these things had sometimes produced such developments of erotic idolatry that men who were not only enthusiastic amateurs of literature, painting, and music, but famous practitioners of them, had actually exulted when mobs and even regular troops under express command had mutilated church statues, smashed church windows, wrecked church organs, and torn up the sheets from which the church music was read and sung. When they saw broken statues in churches, they were told that this was the work of wicked, godless rioters, instead of, as it was, the work partly of zealots bent on driving the world, the flesh, and the devil out of the temple, and partly of insurgent men who had become intolerably poor because the temple had become a den of thieves. But all the sins and perversions that were so carefully hidden from them in the history of the Church were laid on the shoulders of the Theatre: that stuffy, uncomfortable place of penance in which we suffer so much inconvenience on the slenderest chance of gaining a scrap of food for our starving souls. When the Germans bombed the Cathedral of Rheims the world rang with the horror of the sacrilege. When they bombed the Little Theatre in the Adelphi, and narrowly missed bombing two writers of plays who lived within a few yards of it, the fact was not even mentioned in the papers. In point of appeal to the senses no theatre ever built could touch the fane at Rheims: no actress could rival its Virgin in beauty, nor any operatic tenor look otherwise than a fool beside its David. Its picture glass was glorious even to those who had seen the glass of Chartres. It was wonderful in its very grotesques: who would look at the Blondin Donkey after seeing its leviathans? In spite of the Adam-Adelphian decoration on which Miss Kingston had lavished so much taste and care, the Little Theatre was in comparison with Rheims the gloomiest of little conventicles: indeed the cathedral must, from the Puritan point of view, have debauched a million voluptuaries for every one whom the Little Theatre had sent home thoughtful to a chaste bed after Mr Chesterton's Magic or Brieux's Les Avaries. Perhaps that is the real reason why the Church is lauded and the Theatre reviled. Whether or no, the fact remains that the lady to whose public spirit and sense of the national value of the theatre I owed the first regular public performance of a play of mine had to conceal her action as if it had been a crime, whereas if she had given the money to the Church she would have worn a halo for it. And I admit, as I have always done, that this state of things may have been a very sensible one. I have asked Londoners again and again why they pay half a guinea to go to a theatre when they can go to St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey for nothing. Their only possible reply is that they want to see something new and possibly something wicked; but the theatres mostly disappoint both hopes. If ever a revolution makes me Dictator, I shall establish a heavy charge for admission to our churches. But everyone who pays at the church door shall receive a ticket entitling him or her to free admission to one performance at any theatre he or she prefers. Thus shall the sensuous charms of the church service be made to subsidize the sterner virtue of the drama.

I don’t think many people really care about this. We’re not raised to care, and a sense of the national significance of the theater isn’t something people are born with. The average person, like many soldiers at the start of the war, doesn’t know what a theater is. But keep in mind that all these soldiers who didn’t know what a theater was did know what a church was. They had been taught to respect churches. No one had ever told them that a church could be a place where frivolous women paraded in their best outfits; where stories about inappropriate women like Potiphar's wife and erotic poetry like the Song of Songs were read aloud; where the sensual, sentimental music of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Gounod, and Brahms was more popular than serious music by greater composers; where beautiful images of pretty saints assaulted the imagination and senses through stained-glass windows; and where sculpture and architecture enhanced painting. No one ever reminded them that these things sometimes led to such extremes of erotic idolatry that men who were not only enthusiastic fans of literature, painting, and music but also famous creators of them actually rejoiced when mobs, and even regular troops under direct orders, vandalized church statues, shattered church windows, wrecked church organs, and tore up the sheets from which church music was read and sung. When they saw broken statues in churches, they were told that this was the work of wicked, godless rioters instead of, as it was, the result of zealots trying to drive the world, the flesh, and the devil out of the temple, and partly of angry men who had become unbearably poor because the temple had turned into a den of thieves. But all the sins and perversions carefully hidden from them in church history were blamed on the theater: that stuffy, uncomfortable place of penance where we endure so much inconvenience for the slightest chance of feeding our starving souls. When the Germans bombed the Cathedral of Rheims, the world erupted in horror over the sacrilege. When they bombed the Little Theatre in the Adelphi, narrowly missing two playwrights who lived just a few yards away, it wasn’t even mentioned in the newspapers. In terms of sensory appeal, no theater ever built could compare to the Cathedral at Rheims: no actress could rival its Virgin in beauty, nor could any operatic tenor look anything but foolish next to its David. Its stained glass was stunning even to those who had seen Chartres. It was incredible in its grotesques: who would look at the Blondin Donkey after seeing its leviathans? Despite the Adam-Adelphian decor that Miss Kingston had put so much effort into, the Little Theatre seemed dreary in comparison to Rheims: indeed, the cathedral must have seduced a million hedonists for every one the Little Theatre sent home pondering after Mr. Chesterton's Magic or Brieux's Les Avaries. Perhaps that’s the real reason the Church is praised and the Theater is condemned. Regardless, the fact remains that the woman whose public spirit and sense of the theater’s national value led to my first regular public performance had to hide her actions as if they were a crime, whereas if she had donated to the Church, she would have been celebrated for it. And I admit, as I always have, that this situation might have been quite sensible. I’ve asked Londoners again and again why they pay half a guinea to go to a theater when they can visit St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey for free. Their only possible answer is that they want to see something new and maybe something wicked; but the theaters mostly fail to deliver on both counts. If a revolution ever makes me Dictator, I will impose a heavy fee for admission to our churches. But everyone who pays at the church door will receive a ticket granting free admission to any theater performance they choose. This way, the sensual pleasures of the church service will help support the stricter virtue of the drama.

The Next Phase

The Next Stage

The present situation will not last. Although the newspaper I read at breakfast this morning before writing these words contains a calculation that no less than twenty-three wars are at present being waged to confirm the peace, England is no longer in khaki; and a violent reaction is setting in against the crude theatrical fare of the four terrible years. Soon the rents of theatres will once more be fixed on the assumption that they cannot always be full, nor even on the average half full week in and week out. Prices will change. The higher drama will be at no greater disadvantage than it was before the war; and it may benefit, first, by the fact that many of us have been torn from the fools' paradise in which the theatre formerly traded, and thrust upon the sternest realities and necessities until we have lost both faith in and patience with the theatrical pretences that had no root either in reality or necessity; second, by the startling change made by the war in the distribution of income. It seems only the other day that a millionaire was a man with £50,000 a year. To-day, when he has paid his income tax and super tax, and insured his life for the amount of his death duties, he is lucky if his net income is 10,000 pounds though his nominal property remains the same. And this is the result of a Budget which is called "a respite for the rich." At the other end of the scale millions of persons have had regular incomes for the first time in their lives; and their men have been regularly clothed, fed, lodged, and taught to make up their minds that certain things have to be done, also for the first time in their lives. Hundreds of thousands of women have been taken out of their domestic cages and tasted both discipline and independence. The thoughtless and snobbish middle classes have been pulled up short by the very unpleasant experience of being ruined to an unprecedented extent. We have all had a tremendous jolt; and although the widespread notion that the shock of the war would automatically make a new heaven and a new earth, and that the dog would never go back to his vomit nor the sow to her wallowing in the mire, is already seen to be a delusion, yet we are far more conscious of our condition than we were, and far less disposed to submit to it. Revolution, lately only a sensational chapter in history or a demagogic claptrap, is now a possibility so imminent that hardly by trying to suppress it in other countries by arms and defamation, and calling the process anti-Bolshevism, can our Government stave it off at home.

The current situation won't last. The newspaper I read this morning before writing this has a calculation that at least twenty-three wars are currently being fought to secure peace, but England is no longer in uniform; and there's a strong backlash brewing against the crude entertainment of the four dreadful years. Soon, theater ticket prices will again be set on the assumption that they won't always be sold out, or even half full week after week. Prices will shift. Serious drama won't be worse off than it was before the war; in fact, it might benefit for a couple of reasons: first, many of us have been yanked from the fantasy world the theater used to thrive on, and forced into harsh realities until we've lost both faith in and patience with theatrical pretenses that had no basis in reality or need; second, the war has drastically changed income distribution. It feels like just yesterday that a millionaire was someone making £50,000 a year. Today, after paying income and super taxes and insuring his life for the amount of his death duties, he's lucky if his net income is £10,000, even though his property value remains unchanged. This is the result of a budget that's referred to as "a break for the rich." On the flip side, millions of people are experiencing regular incomes for the first time ever; their men have been regularly clothed, fed, housed, and have learned to accept that certain things must be done, also for the first time in their lives. Hundreds of thousands of women have been freed from their domestic roles and have experienced both discipline and independence. The careless and snobbish middle classes have been shockingly brought down by an unprecedented level of ruin. We've all gone through a massive wake-up call; and while the widespread belief that the shock of the war would automatically create a new heaven and a new earth, and that the dog would never return to its vomit nor the sow to its wallowing in the mud, is already proving to be an illusion, we are much more aware of our situation now and much less willing to accept it. Revolution, which was recently just an exciting chapter in history or demagogic nonsense, is now a real possibility so close that even attempts to suppress it in other countries with force and slander—calling the process anti-Bolshevism—won't keep it at bay here at home.

Perhaps the most tragic figure of the day is the American President who was once a historian. In those days it became his task to tell us how, after that great war in America which was more clearly than any other war of our time a war for an idea, the conquerors, confronted with a heroic task of reconstruction, turned recreant, and spent fifteen years in abusing their victory under cover of pretending to accomplish the task they were doing what they could to make impossible. Alas! Hegel was right when he said that we learn from history that men never learn anything from history. With what anguish of mind the President sees that we, the new conquerors, forgetting everything we professed to fight for, are sitting down with watering mouths to a good square meal of ten years revenge upon and humiliation of our prostrate foe, can only be guessed by those who know, as he does, how hopeless is remonstrance, and how happy Lincoln was in perishing from the earth before his inspired messages became scraps of paper. He knows well that from the Peace Conference will come, in spite of his utmost, no edict on which he will be able, like Lincoln, to invoke "the considerate judgment of mankind: and the gracious favor of Almighty God." He led his people to destroy the militarism of Zabern; and the army they rescued is busy in Cologne imprisoning every German who does not salute a British officer; whilst the government at home, asked whether it approves, replies that it does not propose even to discontinue this Zabernism when the Peace is concluded, but in effect looks forward to making Germans salute British officers until the end of the world. That is what war makes of men and women. It will wear off; and the worst it threatens is already proving impracticable; but before the humble and contrite heart ceases to be despised, the President and I, being of the same age, will be dotards. In the meantime there is, for him, another history 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 are written in blood, why, blood they must have, their own for preference.

Perhaps the most tragic figure of the day is the American President who was once a historian. Back then, it became his job to explain how, after that great war in America, which was more clearly than any other war of our time a war for an idea, the victors, faced with the important task of rebuilding, turned cowardly and spent fifteen years misusing their victory while pretending to achieve the very task they were actually trying to sabotage. Unfortunately, Hegel was right when he said we learn from history that people never learn anything from history. The President must feel great anguish watching as we, the new conquerors, forget everything we claimed to fight for, eagerly preparing to indulge in a nice big meal of ten years of revenge and humiliation of our defeated enemy. Only those who know, as he does, how hopeless it is to protest, can guess how relieved Lincoln was to pass away before his inspiring messages became just scraps of paper. He understands that no decree will come from the Peace Conference that will allow him, like Lincoln, to appeal to "the considerate judgment of mankind and the gracious favor of Almighty God." He led his people to eliminate the militarism of Zabern, yet the army they saved is busy in Cologne imprisoning every German who doesn’t salute a British officer, while the government back home, when asked if it approves, responds that it doesn’t even plan to stop this Zabernism when peace is settled, but instead looks forward to making Germans salute British officers until the end of time. That’s what war does to people. It will fade, and the worst it threatens is already proving impractical; but before the humble and contrite heart is no longer scorned, the President and I, being of the same age, will be old fools. In the meantime, he has another story to write; I have another play to produce. Perhaps, after all, that’s what wars are for, and what historians and playwrights exist to do. If people won’t learn until their lessons are written in blood, then blood they must have, their own, preferably.

The Ephemeral Thrones and the Eternal Theatre

The Temporary Crowns and the Lasting Stage

To the theatre it will not matter. Whatever Bastilles fall, the theatre will stand. Apostolic Hapsburg has collapsed; All Highest Hohenzollern languishes in Holland, threatened with trial on a capital charge of fighting for his country against England; Imperial Romanoff, said to have perished miserably by a more summary method of murder, is perhaps alive or perhaps dead: nobody cares more than if he had been a peasant; the lord of Hellas is level with his lackeys in republican Switzerland; Prime Ministers and Commanders-in-Chief have passed from a brief glory as Solons and Caesars into failure and obscurity as closely on one another's heels as the descendants of Banquo; but Euripides and Aristophanes, Shakespeare and Moliere, Goethe and Ibsen remain fixed in their everlasting seats.

To the theater, it doesn’t really matter. No matter how many fortresses fall, the theater will persist. Apostolic Hapsburg has fallen; All Highest Hohenzollern is struggling in Holland, facing trial for supposedly fighting for his country against England; Imperial Romanoff, rumored to have met a grim end through a quicker form of murder, may be alive or dead: nobody cares any more than if he had been a peasant; the ruler of Hellas is now equal to his servants in republican Switzerland; Prime Ministers and Commanders-in-Chief have quickly transitioned from fleeting glory as Solons and Caesars to failure and obscurity, closely following one another like Banquo’s descendants; but Euripides and Aristophanes, Shakespeare and Moliere, Goethe and Ibsen remain firmly in their eternal places.

How War muzzles the Dramatic Poet

How War Silences 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.

As for me, you might wonder why I didn’t write two plays about the war instead of two pamphlets on it. The answer is important. You can’t wage war on war and on your neighbor at the same time. War can’t withstand the harsh criticism of comedy, the harsh brightness of laughter that shines on stage. When people are bravely dying for their country, it’s not the moment to show their lovers and wives and fathers and mothers how they’re being sacrificed to the mistakes of fools, the greed of capitalists, the ambitions of conquerors, the campaigning of demagogues, the hypocrisy of patriots, the desires, lies, resentments, and bloodlusts that thrive on war because it frees them from their cages and elevates them to power and fame. Unless these issues are brutally revealed, they will remain hidden under the cover of ideals on stage just like 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.

And while there might be better things to disclose, it might not, and actually can’t, be strategically wise to share them while the situation is still uncertain. Being honest doesn’t align with protecting the nation. We are just now reading the insights from our generals and admirals, finally free to speak after the truce. During the war, General A, in his powerful reports from the front lines, described how General B had achieved lasting fame in a specific battle. He now reveals that General B almost caused us to lose the war by ignoring his orders at that moment and choosing to fight when he should have retreated. This would definitely make for a great comedy now that the war is over; however, if General A had revealed this at the time, what impact would it have had on General B's troops? And if the theater had disclosed the opinions of the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for War who challenged General A, along with their views of him, as now exposed in heated debates, what would it have done to the country? That’s why comedy, even though it was tempted, had to remain loyal and quiet; because the craft of the playwright doesn’t acknowledge patriotism; recognizes no duty other than truth in storytelling; doesn’t care whether Germany or England is defeated; is prepared to echo Brynhild’s sentiment, “Let us perish, laughing as we go down” rather than deceive or be deceived; and thus becomes a greater military threat during wartime than poison, weapons, or explosives. That’s why I had to keep Heartbreak House off the stage during the war; because the Germans could have, on any given night, turned the final act from performance into reality and might not have even waited for their cues.

June, 1919.

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.

The hilly landscape in the northern part of Sussex looks really nice on a clear evening at the end of September, seen through the windows of a room designed to resemble the back of an old-fashioned ship with a high stern and a gallery. The windows are built like ship windows, with heavy framing, stretching across the room as much as the wall can support. A row of lockers under the windows creates a simple window seat, interrupted by twin glass doors located halfway between the back of the ship and the sides. Another door somewhat breaks the illusion by seeming to be on the ship's left side but actually 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 to the hall and the glass doors in the stern gallery. Against the right wall is a carpenter's bench. The vice holds a board in place, and the floor is scattered with shavings spilling out of a waste paper basket. A couple of planes and a center bit sit on the bench. On the same wall, between the bench and the windows, is a narrow doorway with a half door, above which you can catch a glimpse of the room beyond—a pantry filled with shelves stocked with bottles and kitchenware.

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.

On the right side, but close to the center, there's a simple oak drawing table set up with a drawing board, T-square, straightedges, set squares, math tools, saucers of watercolor, a glass of murky water, Indian ink, pencils, and brushes. The drawing board is positioned so that the drafter's chair has the window to its left. On the floor at the end of the table, on its right, is a ship's fire bucket. On the left side of the room, near the bookshelves, is a sturdy mahogany sofa facing away from the windows. It's oddly upholstered in sailcloth, including the bolster, with a couple of blankets draped over the back. Between the sofa and the drawing table is a large wicker chair with wide arms and a low sloping back, positioned away from the light. A small but solid teak table with a round top and gate legs sits against the left wall between the door and the bookcase. It's the only piece of furniture in the room that mildly suggests a woman's touch in the decor. The uncarpeted floor, made of narrow boards, is caulked and polished 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.

The garden that the glass doors open up to slopes down to the south before the land rises again to the hills. Rising from the dip is the dome of an observatory. Between the observatory and the house is a flagpole on a small terrace, with a hammock on the east side and a long garden bench 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 young woman, wearing gloves and a hat, dressed in a dust coat, is sitting in the window seat with her body turned to take in the view. One hand supports her chin while the other hangs down, holding a copy of the Temple Shakespeare with her finger marking the page she's been reading.

A clock strikes six.

A clock chimes 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.

The young woman turns and checks her watch. She stands up with the demeanor of someone who's been waiting and is nearly out of patience. She's a pretty girl—slender, fair, and sharp-looking—dressed nicely but not extravagantly, clearly not someone who just wastes time.

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.

With a tired sigh, she approaches the draughtsman's chair; sits down; and starts reading Shakespeare. Soon, the book drops onto her lap; her eyes shut; and she drifts off to sleep.

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.

An elderly maid comes in from the hall with three unopened bottles of rum on a tray. She walks through and disappears into the pantry without noticing the young woman. She puts the bottles on the shelf and fills her tray with empty bottles. As she comes back with these, the young woman drops her book, waking herself up and startling the maid so much that she nearly drops the tray.

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

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

THE YOUNG LADY. Waiting for someone to acknowledge that I've been invited here.

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

THE WOMANSERVANT. Oh, you're invited, huh? And no one's shown up? Wow!

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 YOUNG LADY. A scruffy old guy came and peeked in at the window; and I heard him shout, "Nurse, there’s a young and pretty woman waiting in the back. Go see what she needs." 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 WOMANSERVANT. Yes, miss: I'm Nurse Guinness. That was old Captain Shotover, Mrs. Hushabye's father. I heard him yelling, but I thought it was for something else. I guess it was Mrs. Hushabye who invited you, sweetheart?

THE YOUNG LADY. I understood her to do so. But really I think I'd better go.

THE YOUNG LADY. I thought she meant that. But honestly, I think it’s best if I leave.

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?

NURSE GUINNESS. Oh, don't even think about that, miss. If Mrs. Hushabye has forgotten all about it, it'll be a nice surprise for her to see you, right?

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

THE YOUNG LADY. It was a really unpleasant surprise for me to discover that no one is expecting me.

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

NURSE GUINNESS. You'll get used to it, miss: this house is full of surprises for those who aren't familiar with 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?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [looking in from the hall suddenly: an old but still robust man with a huge white beard, wearing a reefer jacket with a whistle hanging from his neck]. Nurse, there’s a duffel bag and a handbag on the front steps for everyone to trip over. Also a tennis racket. Who the hell left them there?

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

THE YOUNG LADY. I'm afraid they're mine.

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

THE CAPTAIN [stepping up to the drawing-table]. Nurse, who is this confused and unfortunate young woman?

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

NURSE GUINNESS. She says Miss Hessy asked her to come, 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.

THE CAPTAIN. Did she not have any friends or parents to warn her about my daughter's invitations? This is quite the establishment, I must say! A young and attractive woman is invited here. Her luggage sits on the steps for hours; she's left alone in the back and abandoned, exhausted and starving. This is how we show hospitality. These are our manners. No room prepared. No hot water. No friendly hostess. Our guest is supposed to sleep in the shed and wash in the pond.

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].

NURSE GUINNESS. It's all set, Captain: I'll make sure the lady has some tea, and her room will be ready before she finishes it. [To the young lady]. Remove your hat, sweetheart; and get comfortable [she heads 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?

THE CAPTAIN [as she passes him]. Ducky! Do you really think, woman, that just because this young lady has been insulted and ignored, you can speak to her the way you talk to my miserable children, whom you’ve raised without knowing the basics of decent social behavior?

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

NURSE GUINNESS. Don’t worry about him, dear. [Completely unfazed, she walks 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 CAPTAIN. Ma'am, can you please tell me 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?

THE CAPTAIN. Dunn! I had a boatswain named Dunn. He used to be a pirate in China. He started a ship supply business with stock that I’m pretty sure he stole from me. I'm sure he got rich from it. 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.

ELLIE [indignant]. No, definitely not. I'm proud to say that even though my dad hasn't been a successful man, no one has ever had anything negative to say about him. I think my dad is the best person I've ever known.

THE CAPTAIN. He must be greatly changed. Has he attained the seventh degree of concentration?

THE CAPTAIN. He must have changed a lot. Has he reached the seventh level of focus?

ELLIE. I don't understand.

ELLIE. I don't get it.

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.

THE CAPTAIN. But how could he, with a daughter? I, ma'am, have two daughters. One of them is Hesione Hushabye, who invited you here. I run this house; she throws it into chaos. I want to reach the highest level of focus; she invites guests and leaves me to deal with them. [Nurse Guinness returns with the tea tray, which she places on the teak table]. I have a second daughter who, thank God, is stuck in a far-off part of the Empire with her clueless husband. When she was a kid, she thought the figurehead of my ship, the Dauntless, was the most beautiful thing in the world. He looked just like it. He had the same vibe: stiff but ambitious. She married him and will never come back to this house.

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.

NURSE GUINNESS [carrying the table with the tea things over to Ellie's side]. You're absolutely wrong. She’s in England right now. You’ve been told three times this week that she’s coming home for a year for her health. You should be really happy to see your 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.

THE CAPTAIN. I'm not happy. The typical time that a human feels love for their child is about six years. My daughter Ariadne was born when I was forty-six. I'm now eighty-eight. If she comes by, I won’t be here. If she needs anything, she can just take it. If she asks for me, let her know that I’m really old and have completely 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].

NURSE GUINNESS. That’s not something to say to a young lady. Here, sweetie, have some tea; and don’t pay attention 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].

THE CAPTAIN [rising angrily]. Now, before God, they have given this innocent child Indian tea: the stuff they use to tan their own leather insides. [He grabs the cup and the teapot and pours both into the leather bucket].

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

ELLIE [almost in tears]. Oh, please! I'm so tired. I should have been grateful for anything.

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

NURSE GUINNESS. Oh, what a thing to do! The poor kid is about to collapse.

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].

THE CAPTAIN. You can have some of my tea. Don't touch that old 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.

NURSE GUINNESS. There's a guy for you! They say he sold his soul to the devil in Zanzibar before he became a captain; and the older he gets, the more I believe it.

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

A WOMAN'S VOICE [in the hall]. Is anyone home? Hesione! Nurse! Dad! Please, someone come and take my luggage inside.

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

Thumping sound, like an umbrella, on the wainscoting.

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.

NURSE GUINNESS. Wow! It's Miss Addy, Lady Utterword, Mrs. Hushabye's sister: the one I mentioned to the captain. [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.

She takes the table back to its spot by the door and is hurrying out when she's stopped by Lady Utterword, who barges in looking quite flustered. Lady Utterword, a blonde, is really beautiful, stylishly dressed, and so quick in her speech and movements that the first impression (which is mistaken) gives off a vibe 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.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, is that you, Nurse? How are you? You don't look a day older. Is nobody home? Where's Hesione? Doesn’t she expect me? Where are the servants? Whose luggage is that on the steps? Where's Dad? Is everyone asleep? [Seeing Ellie]. Oh! I’m so sorry. I guess you must be one of my nieces. [Approaching her with outstretched arms]. Come here and kiss your aunt, sweetheart.

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

ELLIE. I'm just a visitor. That's my luggage on the steps.

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

NURSE GUINNESS. I'll grab you some fresh tea, sweetheart. [She picks up the tray].

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

ELLIE. But the old man 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.

NURSE GUINNESS. Bless you! He’s already forgotten what he came for. His mind keeps drifting from one thing to another.

LADY UTTERWORD. Papa, I suppose?

LADY UTTERWORD. Dad, I guess?

NURSE GUINNESS. Yes, Miss.

NURSE GUINNESS. Yes, ma'am.

LADY UTTERWORD [vehemently]. Don't be silly, Nurse. Don't call me Miss.

LADY UTTERWORD [vehemently]. Don’t be ridiculous, Nurse. Don’t call me Miss.

NURSE GUINNESS [placidly]. No, lovey [she goes out with the tea-tray].

NURSE GUINNESS [calmly]. No, sweetie [she leaves 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].

LADY UTTERWORD [sitting down with a flounce on the sofa]. I know how you must feel. Oh, this house, this house! I come back to it after twenty-three years, and it’s just the same: luggage piled on the steps, spoiled and impossible servants, no one at home to welcome anyone, no regular meals, nobody ever really hungry because they’re always snacking on bread and butter or munching on apples, and, worst of all, the same chaos in thoughts, conversations, and feelings. When I was a child, I got used to it; I’d never known anything better, even though I was unhappy and longed—oh, how I longed!—to be respectable, to be a lady, to live like everyone else, 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 the governor of all the crown colonies one after another. I have always been the mistress of Government House. I’ve been so happy; I had forgotten that people could live like this. I wanted to see my father, my sister, my nephews, and nieces (you know, it’s expected), and I was looking forward to it. And now the state of the house! The way I'm treated! The casual rudeness of that woman Guinness, our old nurse! Honestly, Hesione could have at least been here: some preparation could have been made for me. Please excuse me for going on like this; I’m really very hurt, annoyed, and disillusioned: and if I had known it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have come. I’m seriously thinking about leaving without another word [she is on the verge of crying].

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.

ELLIE [also very miserable]. No one has been here to greet me either. I thought I should leave too. But how can I, Lady Utterword? My luggage is on the steps, and the cab for the station has already left.

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 comes out of the pantry with a tray of Chinese lacquer and an exquisite tea set on it. He temporarily places it on the end of the table, quickly removes the drawing board and stands it on the floor against the table legs, then sets the tray in the space he just cleared. Ellie eagerly pours herself a cup.

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

THE CAPTAIN. Your tea, young lady. What! Another lady! I need to get another cup [he heads for the pantry].

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

LADY UTTERWORD [getting up from the sofa, filled with emotion]. Dad! Don’t you recognize me? I’m your daughter.

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

THE CAPTAIN. Nonsense! My daughter is upstairs asleep. [He disappears through the half door].

Lady Utterword retires to the window to conceal her tears.

Lady Utterword steps away to the window to hide 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.

ELLIE [going to her with the cup]. Don’t be so upset. Here, have this cup of tea. He’s really old and quite unusual: he’s been like that with me too. I can only imagine how awful this must be: my dad means everything to me. Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.

The captain returns with another cup.

The captain comes back with another cup.

THE CAPTAIN. Now we are complete. [He places it on the tray].

THE CAPTAIN. Now we're all set. [He puts 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].

LADY UTTERWORD [hysterically]. Dad, you can’t have forgotten me. I’m Ariadne. I’m little Paddy Patkins. Will you kiss me? [She goes to him and throws her arms around 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.

THE CAPTAIN [woodenly enduring her embrace]. How can you be Ariadne? You’re a middle-aged woman: well-preserved, madam, but not young anymore.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. But think about all the years and years I’ve been gone, Dad. I’ve had to get older, just like everyone else.

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

THE CAPTAIN [pulling away]. You should get over kissing random guys: they might be trying to reach the seventh level of focus.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. But I’m your daughter. You haven’t seen me in 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].

THE CAPTAIN. That's unfortunate! When our relatives are around, we have to focus on their good qualities, or we couldn’t stand them. But when they're gone, we comfort ourselves over their absence by remembering their flaws. That’s why I’ve started to think of my daughter Ariadne, who isn’t here, as a total nightmare; so don’t try to win me over by pretending to be 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].

LADY UTTERWORD. Trying to win favor, am I? [With dignity]. Alright, dad. [She sits down at the drawing-table and pours tea for herself].

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

THE CAPTAIN. I'm ignoring my social obligations. You remember Dunn? Billy Dunn?

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

LADY UTTERWORD. Are you talking about that dreadful sailor who stole from you?

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

ELLIE [protesting]. No—

Nurse Guinness returns with fresh tea.

Nurse Guinness comes back with some fresh tea.

THE CAPTAIN. Take that hogwash away. Do you hear?

THE CAPTAIN. Take that nonsense 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.

NURSE. You've actually remembered 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.

THE CAPTAIN [gloomily]. Youth! Beauty! Novelty! We desperately need those in this house. I'm so old. Hesione is just somewhat young. Her children are not young at all.

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.

LADY UTTERWORD. How can kids be expected to be young and carefree in this house? Almost before we could talk, we were filled with ideas that might have worked for pagan philosophers back in the day, but are definitely not suitable for respectable people at any age.

NURSE. You were always for respectability, Miss Addy.

NURSE. You were always about being respectable, 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?

LADY UTTERWORD. Nurse, please remember that I’m Lady Utterword, not Miss Addy, nor lovey, nor darling, nor doty. Do you understand?

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

NURSE. Sure, sweetheart: that's fine. I'll tell everyone to call you My Lady. [She carries her tray out with calm composure].

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

LADY UTTERWORD. What comfort is there? What is the point of having servants who have 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?

ELLIE [standing and approaching the table to set down her empty cup]. Lady Utterword, do you think Mrs. Hushabye really believes I'm coming?

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.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, don’t ask me. You can see for yourself that I’ve just arrived; her only sister, after twenty-three years away! And it seems that I’m 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].

THE CAPTAIN. What difference does it make if the young lady is expected or not? She’s welcome. We have beds and food. I'll find a room for her myself [he heads 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.

ELLIE [following him to stop him]. Oh, come on—[He goes out]. Lady Utterword, I have no idea what to do. Your dad keeps thinking that my dad is some sailor who stole from 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.

LADY UTTERWORD. You might want to act like you don’t see it. My dad is really smart, but he always forgets stuff; and now that he’s older, it’s even more pronounced. And I have to tell you, it can be really tough to be sure that he actually 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 storms into the room and hugs Ellie. She is a couple of years older than Lady Utterword and even more attractive. She has stunning black hair, eyes like the fish ponds of Heshbon, and a beautifully shaped neck, short at the back and low between her shoulders in front. Unlike her sister, she isn’t wearing a corset and is dressed casually in a luxurious black robe that highlights her fair skin and elegant figure.

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.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie, my darling, my little one [kissing her], how long have you been here? I've been at home the whole time: I was arranging flowers and things in your room; and when I finally sat down for a moment to see how comfy the armchair was, I dozed off. Dad woke me up and told me you were here. Can you believe you found no one around and felt neglected and abandoned? [Kissing her again]. My poor love! [She places Ellie on the sofa. Meanwhile, Ariadne has left the table to come over and get 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?

LADY UTTERWORD. Hesione, do you really not know me?

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

MRS HUSHABYE [conventionally]. Of course I remember your face very well. Where did we meet?

LADY UTTERWORD. Didn't Papa tell you I was here? Oh! this is really too much. [She throws herself sulkily into the big chair].

LADY UTTERWORD. Didn’t Dad tell you I was here? Oh! this is just too much. [She sulks into the big chair].

MRS HUSHABYE. Papa!

Mom!

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, Papa. Our papa, you unfeeling wretch! [Rising angrily]. I'll go straight to a hotel.

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, Dad. Our dad, you heartless jerk! [Standing up 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!

MRS HUSHABYE [grabbing her by the shoulders]. Oh my gosh, you can't be serious—are you really 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!

LADY UTTERWORD. I definitely am, Addy; and I don't think I've changed so much that you wouldn't recognize me if you actually cared about me. And Dad didn't even think I was 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.

MRS HUSHABYE. What a blast! Sit down [she pushes her back into the chair instead of kissing her and stands behind it]. You look amazing. You're much better looking than you used to be. You've met Ellie, right? She's going to marry a total jerk of a millionaire for her father's sake, who's as broke as they come; and you need to help me stop her.

ELLIE. Oh, please, Hesione!

ELLIE. Oh, come on, 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?

MRS HUSHABYE. My dear, the man is coming here today with your father to start bothering you; and everyone will figure out what's going on in ten minutes, so what's the point of keeping it a secret?

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.

ELLIE. He isn't a pig, Hesione. You have no idea how incredibly good he was to my dad, and how thankful 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.

MRS HUSHABYE [to Lady Utterword]. Her father is a truly remarkable man, Addy. His name is Mazzini Dunn. Mazzini was somewhat of a celebrity who knew Ellie's grandparents. They were both poets, like the Brownings; and when her father was born, Mazzini said, "Another soldier born for freedom!" So they named him Mazzini; and he has been quietly fighting for freedom ever since. That's why he's so poor.

ELLIE. I am proud of his poverty.

ELLIE. I'm proud of his struggle.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course you are, sweetheart. Why not leave him and marry someone you actually love?

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

LADY UTTERWORD [standing up suddenly and dramatically]. Hesione, are you going to kiss me or not?

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Why do you want a kiss?

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.

LADY UTTERWORD. I don't want to be kissed; but I do expect you to act properly and decently. We are sisters. We've been apart for twenty-three years. You should kiss me.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Tomorrow morning, darling, before you put on makeup. I can’t stand the smell of powder.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! you heartless—[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].

THE CAPTAIN [to Ellie]. Your room is ready. [Ellie stands up]. The sheets were damp, but I’ve changed them [he heads 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.

THE CAPTAIN [stopping at the door]. Take my advice: air them out, or take them off and sleep in blankets. You can 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.

LADY UTTERWORD. Honestly, I won’t do anything like that. That tiny room! I deserve the best guest room.

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

THE CAPTAIN [continuing unmoved]. She married a fool. She told me she would marry anyone to escape her home.

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

LADT UTTERWORD. You're acting like you don't know me on purpose. I'm going to 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.

Mazzini Dunn enters from the hallway. He is a somewhat older man with wide, trusting eyes and serious demeanor. He is wearing a blue wool suit with an unbuttoned raincoat over it, and he carries a soft black clerical hat.

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

ELLIE. Finally! Captain Shotover, this is my dad.

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

THE CAPTAIN. This! Nonsense! Not at all like him [he leaves 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].

LADY UTTERWORD. I refuse to be overlooked and act like someone I'm not. I'm going to confront Dad right now, this moment. [To Mazzini]. Excuse me. [She follows the captain out, quickly bows to Mazzini, who bows back].

MRS HUSHABYE [hospitably shaking hands]. How good of you to come, Mr Dunn! You don't mind Papa, do you? He is as mad as a hatter, you know, but quite harmless and extremely clever. You will have some delightful talks with him.

MRS HUSHABYE [hospitably shaking hands]. It's so nice of you to come, Mr. Dunn! You don't mind my dad, do you? He’s a bit crazy, but he’s completely harmless and really smart. You'll have some really enjoyable conversations with him.

MAZZINI. I hope so. [To Ellie]. So here you are, Ellie, dear. [He draws her arm affectionately through his]. I must thank you, Mrs Hushabye, for your kindness to my daughter. I'm afraid she would have had no holiday if you had not invited her.

MAZZINI. I hope so. [To Ellie]. So here you are, Ellie, dear. [He affectionately links his arm through hers]. I have to thank you, Mrs. Hushabye, for being so kind to my daughter. I'm afraid she wouldn't have had any holiday if you hadn't invited her.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not at all. Very nice of her to come and attract young people to the house for us.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not at all. It’s really nice of her to come and bring young people to the house for us.

MAZZINI [smiling]. I'm afraid Ellie is not interested in young men, Mrs Hushabye. Her taste is on the graver, solider side.

MAZZINI [smiling]. I'm afraid Ellie isn't into young guys, Mrs. Hushabye. She prefers a more serious, solid type.

MRS HUSHABYE [with a sudden rather hard brightness in her manner]. Won't you take off your overcoat, Mr Dunn? You will find a cupboard for coats and hats and things in the corner of the hall.

MRS HUSHABYE [with a sudden, somewhat forced cheerfulness in her tone]. Why don't you take off your overcoat, Mr. Dunn? There's a cupboard for coats and hats and stuff in the corner of the hall.

MAZZINI [hastily releasing Ellie]. Yes—thank you—I had better— [he goes out].

MAZZINI [quickly letting go of Ellie]. Yes—thank you—I should— [he exits].

MRS HUSHABYE [emphatically]. The old brute!

MRS HUSHABYE [emphatically]. That old monster!

ELLIE. Who?

ELLIE. Who’s that?

MRS HUSHABYE. Who! Him. He. It [pointing after Mazzini]. "Graver, solider tastes," indeed!

MRS HUSHABYE. Who! Him. He. It [pointing after Mazzini]. "Graver, more serious tastes," huh!

ELLIE [aghast]. You don't mean that you were speaking like that of my father!

ELLIE [shocked]. You can't be serious that you were talking about my father like that!

MRS HUSHABYE. I was. You know I was.

ELLIE [with dignity]. I will leave your house at once. [She turns to the door].

ELLIE [with dignity]. I'm leaving your house right now. [She turns to the door].

MRS HUSHABYE. If you attempt it, I'll tell your father why.

MRS HUSHABYE. If you try it, I'll let your dad know why.

ELLIE [turning again]. Oh! How can you treat a visitor like this, Mrs Hushabye?

ELLIE [turning again]. Oh! How can you treat a guest like this, Mrs. Hushabye?

MRS HUSHABYE. I thought you were going to call me Hesione.

ELLIE. Certainly not now?

ELLIE. Definitely not now?

MRS HUSHABYE. Very well: I'll tell your father.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alright: I'll let your dad know.

ELLIE [distressed]. Oh!

ELLIE [upset]. Oh!

MRS HUSHABYE. If you turn a hair—if you take his part against me and against your own heart for a moment, I'll give that born soldier of freedom a piece of my mind that will stand him on his selfish old head for a week.

MRS HUSHABYE. If you even flinch—if you defend him against me and against your own feelings for a moment, I’ll tell that self-proclaimed soldier of freedom exactly what I think, and it will knock him off his self-centered high horse for a week.

ELLIE. Hesione! My father selfish! How little you know—

ELLIE. Hesione! My father is so selfish! You have no idea—

She is interrupted by Mazzini, who returns, excited and perspiring.

She is interrupted by Mazzini, who comes back, energized and sweating.

MAZZINI. Ellie, Mangan has come: I thought you'd like to know. Excuse me, Mrs Hushabye, the strange old gentleman—

MAZZINI. Ellie, Mangan is here: I thought you’d want to know. Excuse me, Mrs. Hushabye, the unusual old gentleman—

MRS HUSHABYE. Papa. Quite so.

Papa. Right on.

MAZZINI. Oh, I beg your pardon, of course: I was a little confused by his manner. He is making Mangan help him with something in the garden; and he wants me too—

MAZZINI. Oh, I'm sorry, of course: I was a bit thrown off by his attitude. He’s getting Mangan to help him with something in the garden; and he wants me to help too—

A powerful whistle is heard.

A loud whistle is heard.

THE CAPTAIN'S VOICE. Bosun ahoy! [the whistle is repeated].

THE CAPTAIN'S VOICE. Hey Bosun! [the whistle is repeated].

MAZZINI [flustered]. Oh dear! I believe he is whistling for me. [He hurries out].

MAZZINI [flustered]. Oh no! I think he’s calling for me. [He hurries out].

MRS HUSHABYE. Now MY father is a wonderful man if you like.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, my dad is an amazing guy, if you ask me.

ELLIE. Hesione, listen to me. You don't understand. My father and Mr Mangan were boys together. Mr Ma—

ELLIE. Hesione, listen to me. You don't get it. My dad and Mr. Mangan grew up together. Mr. Ma—

MRS HUSHABYE. I don't care what they were: we must sit down if you are going to begin as far back as that. [She snatches at Ellie's waist, and makes her sit down on the sofa beside her]. Now, pettikins, tell me all about Mr Mangan. They call him Boss Mangan, don't they? He is a Napoleon of industry and disgustingly rich, isn't he? Why isn't your father rich?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t care what they were: we need to sit down if you're going to start from that far back. [She grabs Ellie’s waist and makes her sit down on the sofa next to her]. Now, sweetheart, tell me all about Mr. Mangan. They call him Boss Mangan, right? He's a big deal in business and ridiculously wealthy, isn’t he? Why isn’t your dad rich?

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

ELLIE. My poor dad should never have gone into business. His parents were poets, and they instilled him with the most admirable ideals, but they couldn't afford to provide him with a career.

MRS HUSHABYE. Fancy your grandparents, with their eyes in fine frenzy rolling! And so your poor father had to go into business. Hasn't he succeeded in it?

MRS HUSHABYE. Can you imagine your grandparents, their eyes wildly spinning? And so your poor dad had to go into business. Hasn't he done well at it?

ELLIE. He always used to say he could succeed if he only had some capital. He fought his way along, to keep a roof over our heads and bring us up well; but it was always a struggle: always the same difficulty of not having capital enough. I don't know how to describe it to you.

ELLIE. He always said he could succeed if he just had some money. He worked hard to keep a roof over our heads and raise us well, but it was always a struggle: always the same issue of not having enough money. I don’t know how to explain it to you.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Poor Ellie! I understand. Dealing with a tough situation.

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

ELLIE [hurt]. Oh, no. Not like that. It was at least respectful.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. That just made it all the harder, didn’t it? I shouldn’t have handled it calmly. I should have really gone for it—[between her teeth] really gone for it. Well? Continue.

ELLIE. At last it seemed that all our troubles were at an end. Mr Mangan did an extraordinarily noble thing out of pure friendship for my father and respect for his character. He asked him how much capital he wanted, and gave it to him. I don't mean that he lent it to him, or that he invested it in his business. He just simply made him a present of it. Wasn't that splendid of him?

ELLIE. Finally, it felt like all our problems were over. Mr. Mangan did an incredibly generous thing purely out of friendship for my dad and admiration for his character. He asked my dad how much money he needed and then just gave it to him. I don’t mean he lent it to him or invested in his business. He just outright gifted it to him. Isn’t that amazing of him?

MRS HUSHABYE. On condition that you married him?

MRS HUSHABYE. Only if you marry him?

ELLIE. Oh, no, no, no! This was when I was a child. He had never even seen me: he never came to our house. It was absolutely disinterested. Pure generosity.

ELLIE. Oh, no, no, no! This was when I was a kid. He had never even seen me: he never came to our house. It was totally selfless. Pure generosity.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! I beg the gentleman's pardon. Well, what became of the money?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! I’m sorry, sir. So, what happened to the money?

ELLIE. We all got new clothes and moved into another house. And I went to another school for two years.

ELLIE. We all got new clothes and moved into a different house. And I went to a new school for two years.

MRS HUSHABYE. Only two years?

Mrs. Hushabye. Just two years?

ELLIE. That was all: for at the end of two years my father was utterly ruined.

ELLIE. That was it: after two years, my father was completely ruined.

MRS HUSHABYE. How?

MRS HUSHABYE. How so?

ELLIE. I don't know. I never could understand. But it was dreadful. When we were poor my father had never been in debt. But when he launched out into business on a large scale, he had to incur liabilities. When the business went into liquidation he owed more money than Mr Mangan had given him.

ELLIE. I don't know. I could never figure it out. But it was terrible. When we were poor, my father had never been in debt. But when he started a big business, he had to take on loans. When the business went under, he owed more than Mr. Mangan had lent him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Bit off more than he could chew, I suppose.

MRS HUSHABYE. Took on more than he could handle, I guess.

ELLIE. I think you are a little unfeeling about it.

ELLIE. I think you’re being a bit insensitive about it.

MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, you mustn't mind my way of talking. I was quite as sensitive and particular as you once; but I have picked up so much slang from the children that I am really hardly presentable. I suppose your father had no head for business, and made a mess of it.

MRS HUSHABYE. My dear, you shouldn't take my way of speaking personally. I used to be just as sensitive and particular as you are now; but I've picked up so much slang from the kids that I'm really not very proper anymore. I guess your dad didn't have much of a head for business and ended up messing things up.

ELLIE. Oh, that just shows how entirely you are mistaken about him. The business turned out a great success. It now pays forty-four per cent after deducting the excess profits tax.

ELLIE. Oh, that just proves how completely wrong you are about him. The business ended up being a huge success. It’s now making a forty-four percent profit after taking out the excess profits tax.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then why aren't you rolling in money?

MRS HUSHABYE. So why aren’t you swimming in cash?

ELLIE. I don't know. It seems very unfair to me. You see, my father was made bankrupt. It nearly broke his heart, because he had persuaded several of his friends to put money into the business. He was sure it would succeed; and events proved that he was quite right. But they all lost their money. It was dreadful. I don't know what we should have done but for Mr Mangan.

ELLIE. I don’t know. It seems really unfair to me. You see, my dad went bankrupt. It almost broke his heart because he convinced a bunch of his friends to invest in the business. He was sure it would succeed, and it turned out he was right. But they all lost their money. It was awful. I don’t know what we would have done without Mr. Mangan.

MRS HUSHABYE. What! Did the Boss come to the rescue again, after all his money being thrown away?

MRS HUSHABYE. What! Did the Boss step in to help again, after all his money was wasted?

ELLIE. He did indeed, and never uttered a reproach to my father. He bought what was left of the business—the buildings and the machinery and things—from the official trustee for enough money to enable my father to pay six-and-eight-pence in the pound and get his discharge. Everyone pitied Papa so much, and saw so plainly that he was an honorable man, that they let him off at six-and-eight-pence instead of ten shillings. Then Mr. Mangan started a company to take up the business, and made my father a manager in it to save us from starvation; for I wasn't earning anything then.

ELLIE. He really did, and never said a harsh word to my father. He bought what was left of the business—the buildings, machinery, and everything—from the official trustee for enough money to let my father pay six-and-eight-pence on the pound and get his discharge. Everyone felt sorry for Papa and clearly saw that he was an honorable man, so they let him settle at six-and-eight-pence instead of ten shillings. Then Mr. Mangan started a company to take over the business and made my father a manager to help us avoid starvation; I wasn't earning anything at that time.

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

MRS. HUSHABYE. What a romance. So when did the Boss fall in love?

ELLIE. Oh, that was years after, quite lately. He took the chair one night at a sort of people's concert. I was singing there. As an amateur, you know: half a guinea for expenses and three songs with three encores. He was so pleased with my singing that he asked might he walk home with me. I never saw anyone so taken aback as he was when I took him home and introduced him to my father, his own manager. It was then that my father told me how nobly he had behaved. Of course it was considered a great chance for me, as he is so rich. And—and—we drifted into a sort of understanding—I suppose I should call it an engagement—[she is distressed and cannot go on].

ELLIE. Oh, that was years later, not too long ago. He took the stage one night at this community concert. I was performing there. Just as an amateur, you know: a bit of money for expenses and three songs with three encores. He was so impressed with my singing that he asked if he could walk home with me. I’ve never seen anyone as shocked as he was when I brought him home and introduced him to my dad, who’s also his manager. That’s when my dad told me how well he had treated me. Of course, it was seen as a huge opportunity for me since he’s so wealthy. And—and—we gradually reached some kind of understanding—I guess I should call it an engagement—[she is distressed and cannot go on].

MRS HUSHABYE [rising and marching about]. You may have drifted into it; but you will bounce out of it, my pettikins, if I am to have anything to do with it.

MRS HUSHABYE [getting up and pacing around]. You might have stumbled into this; but you'll bounce back from it, my dear, if I have anything to say about it.

ELLIE [hopelessly]. No: it's no use. I am bound in honor and gratitude. I will go through with it.

ELLIE [hopelessly]. No: it's pointless. I have to stick to my word and be thankful. I will see it through.

MRS HUSHABYE [behind the sofa, scolding down at her]. You know, of course, that it's not honorable or grateful to marry a man you don't love. Do you love this Mangan man?

MRS HUSHABYE [behind the sofa, scolding down at her]. You know, of course, that it's not right or respectful to marry a man you don't love. Do you love this Mangan guy?

ELLIE. Yes. At least—

ELLIE. Yeah. 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 of impossible people, especially old people.

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t care to hear about “at least”: I want to know the worst. Girls your age fall in love with all kinds of impossible people, especially older ones.

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

ELLIE. I really like Mr. Mangan a lot, and I will always be—

MRS HUSHABYE [impatiently completing the sentence and prancing away intolerantly to starboard]. —grateful to him for his kindness to dear father. I know. Anybody else?

MRS HUSHABYE [impatiently finishing the sentence and striding away irritably to the right]. —thankful to him for his kindness to dear father. I get it. Anyone else?

ELLIE. What do you mean?

ELLIE. What are you talking about?

MRS HUSHABYE. Anybody else? Are you in love with anybody else?

MRS HUSHABYE. Is there anyone else? Are you in love with someone else?

ELLIE. Of course not.

ELLIE: Of course not.

MRS HUSHABYE. Humph! [The book on the drawing-table catches her eye. She picks it up, and evidently finds the title very unexpected. She looks at Ellie, and asks, quaintly] Quite sure you're not in love with an actor?

MRS HUSHABYE. Huh! [The book on the coffee table catches her eye. She picks it up and clearly finds the title surprising. She looks at Ellie and asks, playfully] Are you really sure you’re not in love with an actor?

ELLIE. No, no. Why? What put such a thing into your head?

ELLIE. No, no. Why? What made you think that?

MRS HUSHABYE. This is yours, isn't it? Why else should you be reading Othello?

MRS HUSHABYE. This is yours, right? Why else would you be reading Othello?

ELLIE. My father taught me to love Shakespeare.

ELLIE. My dad taught me to love Shakespeare.

MRS HUSHAYE [flinging the book down on the table]. Really! your father does seem to be about the limit.

MRS HUSHAYE [throwing the book down on the table]. Seriously! your dad really seems to be pushing it.

ELLIE [naively]. Do you never read Shakespeare, Hesione? That seems to me so extraordinary. I like Othello.

ELLIE [naively]. You don't ever read Shakespeare, Hesione? That seems so strange to me. I really like Othello.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you, indeed? He was jealous, wasn't he?

MRS HUSHABYE. Really? He was jealous, wasn't he?

ELLIE. Oh, not that. I think all the part about jealousy is horrible. But don't you think it must have been a wonderful experience for Desdemona, brought up so quietly at home, to meet a man who had been out in the world doing all sorts of brave things and having terrible adventures, and yet finding something in her that made him love to sit and talk with her and tell her about them?

ELLIE. Oh, not that. I think all that stuff about jealousy is awful. But don't you think it must have been an amazing experience for Desdemona, raised so quietly at home, to meet a guy who had been out in the world doing all kinds of brave things and having crazy adventures, and yet finding something in her that made him love to sit and talk with her and share those stories?

MRS HUSHABYE. That's your idea of romance, is it?

MRS HUSHABYE. Is that your idea of romance?

ELLIE. Not romance, exactly. It might really happen.

ELLIE. It's not exactly romance. It could actually happen.

Ellie's eyes show that she is not arguing, but in a daydream. Mrs Hushabye, watching her inquisitively, goes deliberately back to the sofa and resumes her seat beside her.

Ellie's eyes reveal that she isn't debating, but lost in thought. Mrs. Hushabye, observing her curiously, intentionally returns to the sofa and takes her seat next to her.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie darling, have you noticed that some of those stories that Othello told Desdemona couldn't have happened—?

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie darling, have you noticed that some of the stories Othello told Desdemona couldn't have actually happened—?

ELLIE. Oh, no. Shakespeare thought they could have happened.

ELLIE. Oh no. Shakespeare believed they could have happened.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Desdemona thought they could have happened. But they didn't.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Desdemona believed they might have happened. But they didn't.

ELLIE. Why do you look so enigmatic about it? You are such a sphinx: I never know what you mean.

ELLIE. Why do you look so mysterious about it? You're like a sphinx: I never know what you mean.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Desdemona would have figured him out if she had lived, you know. I wonder if that’s why he killed her!

ELLIE. Othello was not telling lies.

ELLIE. Othello wasn't being dishonest.

MRS HUSHABYE. How do you know?

MRS HUSHABYE. How do you know that?

ELLIE. Shakespeare would have said if he was. Hesione, there are men who have done wonderful things: men like Othello, only, of course, white, and very handsome, and—

ELLIE. Shakespeare would have said if he were here. Hesione, there are men who have done amazing things: men like Othello, but of course, white, and really good-looking, and—

MRS HUSHABYE. Ah! Now we're coming to it. Tell me all about him. I knew there must be somebody, or you'd never have been so miserable about Mangan: you'd have thought it quite a lark to marry him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ah! Now we're getting to the point. Tell me everything about him. I knew there had to be someone, or you wouldn't have been so upset about Mangan; you would have thought it was a total joke to marry him.

ELLIE [blushing vividly]. Hesione, you are dreadful. But I don't want to make a secret of it, though of course I don't tell everybody. Besides, I don't know him.

ELLIE [blushing vividly]. Hesione, you're terrible. But I don't want to hide it, even though I don't share it with everyone. Plus, I don't really know him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Don't know him! What does that mean?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don't know him! What does that mean?

ELLIE. Well, of course I know him to speak to.

ELLIE. Well, of course I know him to talk to.

MRS HUSHABYE. But you want to know him ever so much more intimately, eh?

MRS HUSHABYE. But you really want to get to know him way better, right?

ELLIE. No, no: I know him quite—almost intimately.

ELLIE. No, no: I know him really well—almost intimately.

MRS HUSHABYE. You don't know him; and you know him almost intimately. How lucid!

MRS HUSHABYE. You don't know him; yet you know him pretty well. How clear!

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

ELLIE. I mean that he doesn’t reach out to us. I—I happened to strike up a conversation with him at a concert.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. It looks like you have a great time at your concerts, Ellie.

ELLIE. Not at all: we talk to everyone in the greenroom waiting for our turns. I thought he was one of the artists: he looked so splendid. But he was only one of the committee. I happened to tell him that I was copying a picture at the National Gallery. I make a little money that way. I can't paint much; but as it's always the same picture I can do it pretty quickly and get two or three pounds for it. It happened that he came to the National Gallery one day.

ELLIE. Not at all: we chat with everyone in the greenroom while we wait for our turns. I thought he was one of the artists; he looked so impressive. But he was just on the committee. I mentioned that I was copying a painting at the National Gallery. I make a little money that way. I can't paint much, but since it's always the same painting, I can do it pretty quickly and earn two or three pounds for it. It turned out he visited the National Gallery one day.

MRS HUSHABYE. One students' day. Paid sixpence to stumble about through a crowd of easels, when he might have come in next day for nothing and found the floor clear! Quite by accident?

MRS HUSHABYE. One student's day. Paid sixpence to fumble through a crowd of easels when he could have come in the next day for free and found the floor clear! Just by chance?

ELLIE [triumphantly]. No. On purpose. He liked talking to me. He knows lots of the most splendid people. Fashionable women who are all in love with him. But he ran away from them to see me at the National Gallery and persuade me to come with him for a drive round Richmond Park in a taxi.

ELLIE [triumphantly]. No. It was intentional. He enjoyed talking to me. He knows a lot of amazing people. Stylish women who are all infatuated with him. But he left them behind to meet me at the National Gallery and convince me to join him for a taxi ride around Richmond Park.

MRS HUSHABYE. My pettikins, you have been going it. It's wonderful what you good girls can do without anyone saying a word.

MRS HUSHABYE. My darling, you’ve really outdone yourself. It’s amazing what you good girls can accomplish without anyone needing to say a thing.

ELLIE. I am not in society, Hesione. If I didn't make acquaintances in that way I shouldn't have any at all.

ELLIE. I'm not part of society, Hesione. If I didn't meet people like that, I wouldn't have any friends at all.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, no harm if you know how to take care of yourself. May I ask his name?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, it’s fine as long as you know how to stay safe. Can I ask what his name is?

ELLIE [slowly and musically]. Marcus Darnley.

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

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

ELLIE. Oh, I'm so glad you think so. I think so too; but I was afraid it was only a silly fancy of my own.

ELLIE. Oh, I'm really glad you agree. I think so too, but I was worried it was just a silly idea of mine.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Is he one of the Aberdeen Darnleys?

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

ELLIE. Nobody knows. Can you believe it? He was found in an antique chest—

MRS HUSHABYE. A what?

Mrs. Hushabye. A what?

ELLIE. An antique chest, one summer morning in a rose garden, after a night of the most terrible thunderstorm.

ELLIE. An old chest, one summer morning in a rose garden, after a night of the worst thunderstorm.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. What was he doing in the chest? Did he climb in there because he was scared of the lightning?

ELLIE. Oh, no, no: he was a baby. The name Marcus Darnley was embroidered on his baby clothes. And five hundred pounds in gold.

ELLIE. Oh, no, no: he was just a baby. The name Marcus Darnley was embroidered on his baby clothes. And five hundred pounds in gold.

MRS HUSHABYE [Looking hard at her]. Ellie!

MRS HUSHABYE [Looking intently at her]. Ellie!

ELLIE. The garden of the Viscount—

ELLIE. The Viscount's garden—

MRS HUSHABYE. —de Rougemont?

ELLIE [innocently]. No: de Larochejaquelin. A French family. A vicomte. His life has been one long romance. A tiger—

ELLIE [innocently]. No: de Larochejaquelin. A French family. A viscount. His life has been one long romance. A tiger—

MRS HUSHABYE. Slain by his own hand?

MRS HUSHABYE. Killed by his own hand?

ELLIE. Oh, no: nothing vulgar like that. He saved the life of the tiger from a hunting party: one of King Edward's hunting parties in India. The King was furious: that was why he never had his military services properly recognized. But he doesn't care. He is a Socialist and despises rank, and has been in three revolutions fighting on the barricades.

ELLIE. Oh, no: nothing vulgar like that. He saved the life of a tiger from a hunting party: one of King Edward's hunting excursions in India. The King was furious: that’s why he never got proper recognition for his military service. But he doesn’t care. He’s a Socialist and hates status, and he has fought in three revolutions on the barricades.

MRS HUSHABYE. How can you sit there telling 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]. Do you mean you don't believe me?

ELLIE [standing up, proud but extremely angry]. Are you saying you don’t believe me?

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course I don't believe you. You're inventing every word of it. Do you take me for a fool?

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course I don’t believe you. You’re making up every word of it. Do you think I’m an idiot?

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

Ellie stares at her. Her honesty is so clear that Mrs. Hushabye is confused.

ELLIE. Goodbye, Hesione. I'm very sorry. I see now that it sounds very improbable as I tell it. But I can't stay if you think that way about me.

ELLIE. Goodbye, Hesione. I'm really sorry. I realize now that it sounds pretty unbelievable as I explain it. But I can't stick around if you feel that way about me.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [catching her dress]. You’re not leaving. I couldn’t be that wrong: I know exactly what liars are like. Someone has definitely told you all this.

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

ELLIE [blushing]. Hesione, please don’t say you don’t believe him. I couldn’t handle that.

MRS HUSHABYE [soothing her]. Of course I believe him, dearest. But you should have broken it to me by degrees. [Drawing her back to her seat]. Now tell me all about him. Are you in love with him?

MRS HUSHABYE [soothing her]. Of course I believe him, dear. But you should have eased me into it. [Pulling her back to her seat]. Now tell me everything about him. Are you in love with him?

ELLIE. Oh, no. I'm not so foolish. I don't fall in love with people. I'm not so silly as you think.

ELLIE. Oh, no. I'm not that naive. I don't fall in love with people. I'm not as silly as you think.

MRS HUSHABYE. I see. Only something to think about—to give some interest and pleasure to life.

MRS HUSHABYE. I get it. Just something to consider—to add some excitement and joy to life.

ELLIE. Just so. That's all, really.

ELLIE. Exactly. That's all, really.

MRS HUSHABYE. It makes the hours go fast, doesn't it? No tedious waiting to go to sleep at nights and wondering whether you will have a bad night. How delightful it makes waking up in the morning! How much better than the happiest dream! All life transfigured! No more wishing one had an interesting book to read, because life is so much happier than any book! No desire but to be alone and not to have to talk to anyone: to be alone and just think about it.

MRS HUSHABYE. It really makes the hours fly by, doesn’t it? No boring waiting to fall asleep at night, wondering if you’ll have a rough night. How wonderful it feels to wake up in the morning! So much better than the best dream! Life is completely transformed! No more wishing you had a good book to read, because life is way more enjoyable than any book! All you want is to be alone and not have to talk to anyone: just be alone and think about it.

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

ELLIE [embracing her]. Hesione, you’re amazing. How do you know? Oh, you’re the most caring woman in the world!

MRS HUSHABYE [caressing her]. Pettikins, my pettikins, how I envy you! and how I pity you!

MRS HUSHABYE [gently stroking her]. Pettikins, my little one, how I envy you! and how I feel sorry for you!

ELLIE. Pity me! Oh, why?

ELLIE. Feel sorry for me! Why?

A very handsome man of fifty, with mousquetaire moustaches, wearing a rather dandified curly brimmed hat, and carrying an elaborate walking-stick, comes into the room from the hall, and stops short at sight of the women on the sofa.

A very attractive man in his fifties, with a distinctive moustache, wearing a stylish, curly-brimmed hat, and carrying a fancy walking stick, walks into the room from the hall and immediately stops when he sees the women on the sofa.

ELLIE [seeing him and rising in glad surprise]. Oh! Hesione: this is Mr Marcus Darnley.

ELLIE [seeing him and standing up in happy surprise]. Oh! Hesione: this is Mr. Marcus Darnley.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [standing up]. What a joke! He’s my husband.

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

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

MRS HUSHABYE [catching her and sitting down with her on the sofa]. Steady, my pettikins.

MRS HUSHABYE [catching her and sitting down with her on the sofa]. Easy there, my little one.

THE MAN [with a mixture of confusion and effrontery, depositing his hat and stick on the teak table]. My real name, Miss Dunn, is Hector Hushabye. I leave you to judge whether that is a name any sensitive man would care to confess to. I never use it when I can possibly help it. I have been away for nearly a month; and I had no idea you knew my wife, or that you were coming here. I am none the less delighted to find you in our little house.

THE MAN [with a mix of confusion and annoyance, placing his hat and stick on the teak table]. My real name, Miss Dunn, is Hector Hushabye. I’ll let you decide if that’s a name any sensitive man would want to own up to. I avoid using it whenever I can. I've been away for almost a month, and I had no idea you knew my wife or that you were coming here. I'm still thrilled to see you in our little house.

ELLIE [in great distress]. I don't know what to do. Please, may I speak to papa? Do leave me. I can't bear it.

ELLIE [in great distress]. I don't know what to do. Please, can I talk to Dad? Just leave me alone. I can't handle it.

MRS HUSHABYE. Be off, Hector.

Mrs. Hushabye: Get lost, Hector.

HECTOR. I—

MRS HUSHABYE. Quick, quick. Get out.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Hurry, hurry. Get out.

HECTOR. If you think it better—[he goes out, taking his hat with him but leaving the stick on the table].

HECTOR. If you think that's best—[he leaves, taking his hat but leaving the stick on the table].

MRS HUSHABYE [laying Ellie down at the end of the sofa]. Now, pettikins, he is gone. There's nobody but me. You can let yourself go. Don't try to control yourself. Have a good cry.

MRS HUSHABYE [laying Ellie down at the end of the sofa]. Now, sweetie, he’s gone. It’s just me now. You can relax. Don’t hold back. Go ahead and have a good cry.

ELLIE [raising her head]. Damn!

MRS HUSHABYE. Splendid! Oh, what a relief! I thought you were going to be broken-hearted. Never mind me. Damn him again.

MRS HUSHABYE. Awesome! Oh, what a relief! I thought you were going to be so upset. Forget about 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 begins prowling to and fro, her bloom gone, looking curiously older and harder].

ELLIE. I’m not blaming him. I’m blaming myself for being such a fool. [Rising]. How could I let myself be fooled like this? [She starts pacing back and forth, her glow gone, looking strangely older and tougher].

MRS HUSHABYE [cheerfully]. Why not, pettikins? Very few young women can resist Hector. I couldn't when I was your age. He is really rather splendid, you know.

MRS HUSHABYE [cheerfully]. Why not, sweetheart? Very few young women can resist Hector. I couldn't when I was your age. He's actually quite impressive, you know.

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

ELLIE [turning on her]. Amazing! Yes, amazing looking, of course. But how can you love someone who lies?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don't know. But you can, fortunately. Otherwise there wouldn't be much love in the world.

MRS HUSHABYE. I’m not sure. But luckily, you can. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be much love in the world.

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

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

MRS HUSHABYE [rising in alarm]. Pettikins, none of that, if you please. If you hint the slightest doubt of Hector's courage, he will go straight off and do the most horribly dangerous things to convince himself that he isn't a coward. He has a dreadful trick of getting out of one third-floor window and coming in at another, just to test his nerve. He has a whole drawerful of Albert Medals for saving people's lives.

MRS HUSHABYE [standing up in alarm]. Pettikins, none of that, please. If you even suggest the slightest doubt about Hector's bravery, he'll immediately go off and do some incredibly dangerous things to prove to himself that he's not a coward. He has this awful habit of climbing out of one third-floor window and coming back in through another, just to test his nerve. He has an entire drawer full of Albert Medals for saving people's lives.

ELLIE. He never told me that.

ELLIE. He never mentioned that to me.

MRS HUSHABYE. He never boasts of anything he really did: he can't bear it; and it makes him shy if anyone else does. All his stories are made-up stories.

MRS HUSHABYE. He never brags about anything he actually did: he can't stand it; and it makes him uncomfortable if anyone else does. All his stories are just made-up ones.

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

ELLIE [approaching her]. Are you saying that he’s actually brave and really has adventures, but still tells lies about things he never did and that never happened?

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes, pettikins, I do. People don't have their virtues and vices in neat packages: they have them however they come: all jumbled up.

ELLIE [staring at her thoughtfully]. There's something odd about this house, Hesione, and even about you. I don't know why I'm talking to you so calmly. I have a horrible fear that my heart is broken, but that heartbreak is not like what I thought it must be.

ELLIE [staring at her thoughtfully]. There's something strange about this house, Hesione, and even about you. I don’t know why I'm talking to you so calmly. I have a terrible feeling that my heart is broken, but it's not the kind of heartbreak I expected.

MRS HUSHABYE [fondling her]. It's only life educating you, pettikins. How do you feel about Boss Mangan now?

MRS HUSHABYE [fondling her]. It's just life trying to teach you, sweetheart. How do you feel about Boss Mangan now?

ELLIE [disengaging herself with an expression of distaste]. Oh, how can you remind me of him, Hesione?

ELLIE [pulling away with a look of disgust]. Ugh, how can you bring him up, Hesione?

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Sorry, babe. I think I hear Hector coming back. You don't mind now, do you?

ELLIE. Not in the least. I am quite cured.

ELLIE. Not at all. I am completely healed.

Mazzini Dunn and Hector come in from the hall.

Mazzini, Dunn, and Hector walk in from the hallway.

HECTOR [as he opens the door and allows Mazzini to pass in]. One second more, and she would have been a dead woman!

HECTOR [as he opens the door and lets Mazzini in]. One more second, and she would have been a dead woman!

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

MAZZINI. Wow! What a close call! Ellie, my love, Mr. Hushabye just told me the most unbelievable—

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

ELLIE. Yeah, I've heard it. [she walks to the other side of the room].

HECTOR [following her]. Not this one: I'll tell it to you after dinner. I think you'll like it. The truth is I made it up for you, and was looking forward to the pleasure of telling it to you. But in a moment of impatience at being turned out of the room, I threw it away on your father.

HECTOR [following her]. Not this one: I'll tell you after dinner. I think you’ll like it. The truth is, I made it up for you and was excited to share it with you. But in a moment of frustration at being kicked out of the room, I ended up telling it to your father instead.

ELLIE [turning at bay with her back to the carpenter's bench, scornfully self-possessed]. It was not thrown away. He believes it. I should not have believed it.

ELLIE [turning around with her back to the carpenter's bench, confidently disdainful]. It wasn't wasted. He believes it. I shouldn't have believed it.

MAZZINI [benevolently]. Ellie is very naughty, Mr Hushabye. Of course she does not really think that. [He goes to the bookshelves, and inspects the titles of the volumes].

MAZZINI [kindly]. Ellie is being really naughty, Mr. Hushabye. She doesn’t actually believe that. [He walks over to the bookshelves and looks at the titles of the books].

Boss Mangan comes in from the hall, followed by the captain. Mangan, carefully frock-coated as for church or for a diHECTORs' meeting, is about fifty-five, with a careworn, mistrustful expression, standing a little on an entirely imaginary dignity, with a dull complexion, straight, lustreless hair, and features so entirely commonplace that it is impossible to describe them.

Boss Mangan walks in from the hallway, followed by the captain. Mangan, dressed formally in a coat as if for church or a business meeting, is around fifty-five, with a worried, skeptical look on his face, maintaining a pretense of dignity, with a dull complexion, straight, lifeless hair, and such ordinary features that it's hard to describe them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mrs Hushabye, introducing the newcomer]. Says his name is Mangan. Not able-bodied.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mrs Hushabye, introducing the newcomer]. Says his name is Mangan. Not physically capable.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [graciously]. How are you, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN [shaking hands]. Very pleased.

MANGAN [shaking hands]. Nice to meet you.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dunn's lost his muscle, but recovered his nerve. Men seldom do after three attacks of delirium tremens [he goes into the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dunn's lost his strength, but got his confidence back. Men usually don't after three bouts of delirium tremens [he goes into the pantry].

MRS HUSHABYE. I congratulate you, Mr Dunn.

MRS HUSHABYE. Congrats, Mr. Dunn!

MAZZINI [dazed]. I am a lifelong teetotaler.

MAZZINI [dazed]. I’ve been a teetotaler my whole life.

MRS HUSHABYE. You will find it far less trouble to let papa have his own way than try to explain.

MRS HUSHABYE. You’ll find it much easier to just let dad have his way than to try explaining.

MAZZINI. But three attacks of delirium tremens, really!

MAZZINI. But three episodes of delirium tremens, seriously!

MRS HUSHABYE [to Mangan]. Do you know my husband, Mr Mangan [she indicates Hector].

MRS HUSHABYE [to Mangan]. Do you know my husband, Mr. Mangan? [she points to Hector].

MANGAN [going to Hector, who meets him with outstretched hand]. Very pleased. [Turning to Ellie]. I hope, Miss Ellie, you have not found the journey down too fatiguing. [They shake hands].

MANGAN [approaching Hector, who greets him with a welcoming hand]. Great to meet you. [Turning to Ellie]. I hope, Miss Ellie, that your trip down wasn’t too exhausting. [They shake hands].

MRS HUSHABYE. Hector, show Mr Dunn his room.

MRS HUSHABYE. Hector, take Mr. Dunn to his room.

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

HECTOR. Sure thing. Let’s go, Mr. Dunn. [He takes Mazzini out].

ELLIE. You haven't shown me my room yet, Hesione.

ELLIE. You still haven't shown me my room, Hesione.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. How silly of me! Come on in. Make yourself at home, Mr. Mangan. Dad will take care of you. [She calls to the captain in the pantry]. Dad, come and explain the house to Mr. Mangan.

She goes out with Ellie. The captain comes from the pantry.

She hangs out with Ellie. The captain comes out of the pantry.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You're going to marry Dunn's daughter. Don't. You're too old.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You’re going to marry Dunn’s daughter. Don't do it. You're too old.

MANGAN [staggered]. Well! That's fairly blunt, Captain.

MANGAN [staggered]. Wow! That’s pretty direct, Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's true.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That's true.

MANGAN. She doesn't think so.

MANGAN. She doesn't believe that.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. She does.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yeah, she does.

MANGAN. Older men than I have—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [finishing the sentence for him].—made fools of themselves. That, also, is true.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [finishing the sentence for him].—made fools of themselves. That, too, is true.

MANGAN [asserting himself]. I don't see that this is any business of yours.

MANGAN [asserting himself]. I don't think this is any of your concern.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It is everybody's business. The stars in their courses are shaken when such things happen.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's everyone's concern. The stars in their paths are disturbed when these events occur.

MANGAN. I'm going to marry her all the same.

MANGAN. I'm still going to marry her.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. How do you know?

MANGAN [playing the strong man]. I intend to. I mean to. See? I never made up my mind to do a thing yet that I didn't bring it off. That's the sort of man I am; and there will be a better understanding between us when you make up your mind to that, Captain.

MANGAN [acting tough]. I plan to. I mean it. You see? I've never decided to do something that I didn’t achieve. That’s just how I am; and things will go more smoothly between us once you accept that, Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You frequent picture palaces.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You often go to the movies.

MANGAN. Perhaps I do. Who told you?

MANGAN. Maybe I do. Who let you know?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Talk like a man, not like a movie. You mean that you make a hundred thousand a year.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Speak like a real person, not like in a film. You mean you earn a hundred thousand a year.

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

MANGAN. I don't brag. But when I meet a guy who makes a hundred thousand a year, I tip my hat to him, extend my hand, and call him brother.

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. So you also earn a hundred thousand a year, huh?

MANGAN. No. I can't say that. Fifty thousand, perhaps.

MANGAN. No. I can't say that. Maybe fifty thousand.

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Just his half-brother only [he turns away from Mangan with his usual abruptness, and collects the empty tea cups on the Chinese tray].

MANGAN [irritated]. See here, Captain Shotover. I don't quite understand my position here. I came here on your daughter's invitation. Am I in her house or in yours?

MANGAN [irritated]. Listen, Captain Shotover. I'm not really clear on where I stand here. I came here because your daughter invited me. Am I in her house or yours?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You are beneath the dome of heaven, in the house of God. What is true within these walls is true outside them. Go out on the seas; climb the mountains; wander through the valleys. She is still too young.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You are under the sky, in God's house. What is true within these walls is true outside of them. Go out to the seas; climb the mountains; wander through the valleys. She's still too young.

MANGAN [weakening]. But I'm very little over fifty.

MANGAN [weakening]. But I'm just a little over fifty.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You are still less under sixty. Boss Mangan, you will not marry the pirate's child [he carries the tray away into the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You’re definitely not yet sixty. Boss Mangan, you’re not marrying the pirate's kid [he takes the tray into the pantry].

MANGAN [following him to the half door]. What pirate's child? What are you talking about?

MANGAN [following him to the half door]. What pirate's kid? What are you saying?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [in the pantry]. Ellie Dunn. You will not marry her.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [in the pantry]. Ellie Dunn. You are not going to marry her.

MANGAN. Who will stop me?

MANGAN. Who’s going to stop me?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [emerging]. My daughter [he makes for the door leading to the hall].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [appearing]. My daughter [he heads for the door leading to the hall].

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

MANGAN [following him]. Mrs. Hushabye! Are you saying she brought me down here to end things?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping and turning on him]. I know nothing more than I have seen in her eye. She will break it off. Take my advice: marry a West Indian negress: they make excellent wives. I was married to one myself for two years.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping and turning to him]. I only know what I've seen in her eyes. She'll end it. Take my advice: marry a West Indian woman; they're great wives. I was married to one for two years myself.

MANGAN. Well, I am damned!

MANGAN. Well, I’m screwed!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I thought so. I was, too, for many years. The negress redeemed me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I thought so. I was, too, for many years. The Black woman saved me.

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

MANGAN [weakly]. This is strange. I should just leave this house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why?

MANGAN. Well, many men would be offended by your style of talking.

MANGAN. Well, a lot of guys would be upset by the way you talk.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Nonsense! It's the other sort of talking that makes quarrels. Nobody ever quarrels with me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Nonsense! It's the other kind of talking that leads to fights. Nobody ever argues with me.

A gentleman, whose first-rate tailoring and frictionless manners proclaim the wellbred West Ender, comes in from the hall. He has an engaging air of being young and unmarried, but on close inspection is found to be at least over forty.

A man, whose top-notch tailoring and smooth manners reveal his upscale West End background, walks in from the hallway. He gives off a charming vibe of being young and single, but upon closer look, he's clearly at least in his forties.

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

THE GENTLEMAN. Sorry to barge in like this, but there's no knocker on the door and the bell doesn’t seem to work.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why should there be a knocker? Why should the bell ring? The door is open.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why do we need a knocker? Why should the bell ring? The door is already open.

THE GENTLEMAN. Precisely. So I ventured to come in.

THE GENTLEMAN. Exactly. So I took the chance to come in.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Quite right. I will see about a room for you [he makes for the door].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Exactly. I'll look for a room for you [he heads for the door].

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. DO you suppose that at my age I make distinctions between one fellow creature and another? [He goes out. Mangan and the newcomer stare at one another].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Do you really think that at my age I differentiate between one person and another? [He exits. Mangan and the newcomer look at each other].

MANGAN. Strange character, Captain Shotover, sir.

MANGAN. Odd character, Captain Shotover, sir.

THE GENTLEMAN. Very.

THE GENTLEMAN. Totally.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [shouting outside]. Hesione, another person has arrived and wants a room. Man about town, well dressed, fifty.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [shouting outside]. Hesione, another person just showed up and wants a room. He’s a well-dressed man about town, around fifty.

THE GENTLEMAN. Fancy Hesione's feelings! May I ask are you a member of the family?

THE GENTLEMAN. Can you imagine how Hesione feels! May I ask if you're part of the family?

MANGAN. No.

MANGAN. Nope.

THE GENTLEMAN. I am. At least a connection.

THE GENTLEMAN. I am. At least related to him.

Mrs Hushabye comes back.

Mrs. Hushabye returns.

MRS HUSHABYE. How do you do? How good of you to come!

MRS HUSHABYE. How’s it going? It’s so nice of you to come!

THE GENTLEMAN. I am very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, Hesione. [Instead of taking her hand he kisses her. At the same moment the captain appears in the doorway]. You will excuse my kissing your daughter, Captain, when I tell you that—

THE GENTLEMAN. I'm really glad to meet you, Hesione. [Instead of shaking her hand, he kisses her. Just then, the captain appears in the doorway]. You’ll forgive me for kissing your daughter, Captain, when I tell you that—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Stuff! Everyone kisses my daughter. Kiss her as much as you like [he makes for the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Nonsense! Everyone is always kissing my daughter. Feel free to kiss her as much as you want [he heads for the pantry].

THE GENTLEMAN. Thank you. One moment, Captain. [The captain halts and turns. The gentleman goes to him affably]. Do you happen to remember but probably you don't, as it occurred many years ago— that your younger daughter married a numskull?

THE GENTLEMAN. Thank you. One moment, Captain. [The captain stops and turns. The gentleman approaches him warmly]. Do you happen to remember, though you probably don't since it was a long time ago—that your younger daughter married a fool?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes. She said she'd marry anybody to get away from this house. I should not have recognized you: your head is no longer like a walnut. Your aspect is softened. You have been boiled in bread and milk for years and years, like other married men. Poor devil! [He disappears into the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yeah. She said she'd marry anyone just to escape this house. I wouldn't have recognized you: your head doesn't look like a walnut anymore. You seem softer. You've been pampered like other married guys for years and years. Poor guy! [He goes into the pantry].

MRS HUSHABYE [going past Mangan to the gentleman and scrutinizing him]. I don't believe you are Hastings Utterword.

MRS HUSHABYE [walking past Mangan to the man and examining him]. I don't think you are Hastings Utterword.

THE GENTLEMAN. I am not.

I’m not.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then what business had you to kiss me?

MRS HUSHABYE. So why did you kiss me?

THE GENTLEMAN. I thought I would like to. The fact is, I am Randall Utterword, the unworthy younger brother of Hastings. I was abroad diplomatizing when he was married.

THE GENTLEMAN. I thought I would like to. The truth is, I’m Randall Utterword, the less distinguished younger brother of Hastings. I was overseas on diplomatic business when he got married.

LADY UTTERWORD [dashing in]. Hesione, where is the key of the wardrobe in my room? My diamonds are in my dressing-bag: I must lock it up—[recognizing the stranger with a shock] Randall, how dare you? [She marches at him past Mrs Hushabye, who retreats and joins Mangan near the sofa].

LADY UTTERWORD [dashing in]. Hesione, where’s the key to the wardrobe in my room? My diamonds are in my dressing bag: I need to lock it up—[realizing who the stranger is with a shock] Randall, how dare you? [She marches towards him, passing Mrs. Hushabye, who steps back and joins Mangan near the sofa].

RANDALL. How dare I what? I am not doing anything.

RANDALL. How dare I what? I'm not doing anything.

LADY UTTERWORD. Who told you I was here?

LADY UTTERWORD. Who let you know I was here?

RANDALL. Hastings. You had just left when I called on you at Claridge's; so I followed you down here. You are looking extremely well.

RANDALL. Hastings. You had just left when I called on you at Claridge's; so I followed you down here. You look really great.

LADY UTTERWORD. Don't presume to tell me so.

LADY UTTERWORD. Don't assume you can say that to me.

MRS HUSHABYE. What is wrong with Mr Randall, Addy?

MRS HUSHABYE. What's wrong with Mr. Randall, Addy?

LADY UTTERWORD [recollecting herself]. Oh, nothing. But he has no right to come bothering you and papa without being invited [she goes to the window-seat and sits down, turning away from them ill-humoredly and looking into the garden, where Hector and Ellie are now seen strolling together].

LADY UTTERWORD [collecting herself]. Oh, it’s nothing. But he shouldn’t come bothering you and dad without an invitation [she walks over to the window seat and sits down, turning away from them irritably and looking into the garden, where Hector and Ellie are now seen walking together].

MRS HUSHABYE. I think you have not met Mr Mangan, Addy.

MRS HUSHABYE. I don't think you've met Mr. Mangan, Addy.

LADY UTTERWORD [turning her head and nodding coldly to Mangan]. I beg your pardon. Randall, you have flustered me so: I make a perfect fool of myself.

LADY UTTERWORD [turning her head and nodding coldly to Mangan]. I’m sorry. Randall, you’ve flustered me so much: I’m making a complete fool of myself.

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

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

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

LADY UTTERWORD [with marked interest]. Who is that gentleman walking in the garden with Miss Dunn?

LADY UTTERWORD [with marked interest]. Who's that guy walking in the garden with Miss Dunn?

MRS HUSHABYE. I don't know. She quarrelled mortally with my husband only ten minutes ago; and I didn't know anyone else had come. It must be a visitor. [She goes to the window to look]. Oh, it is Hector. They've made it up.

MRS HUSHABYE. I don’t know. She just had a huge fight with my husband only ten minutes ago, and I didn’t realize anyone else was here. It must be a visitor. [She goes to the window to look]. Oh, it’s Hector. They’ve made up.

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband! That handsome man?

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband! That good-looking guy?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, why shouldn't my husband be a handsome man?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, why can't my husband be a good-looking guy?

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

RANDALL [joining them at the window]. Your husband never is, Ariadne [he sits by Lady Utterword, on her right].

MRS HUSHABYE. One's sister's husband always is, Mr Randall.

MRS HUSHABYE. Your sister's husband always is, Mr. Randall.

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

LADY UTTERWORD. Don't be crude, Randall. And you, Hesione, are just as guilty.

Ellie and Hector come in from the garden by the starboard door. Randall rises. Ellie retires into the corner near the pantry. Hector comes forward; and Lady Utterword rises looking her very best.

Ellie and Hector come in from the garden through the right door. Randall gets up. Ellie steps back into the corner by the pantry. Hector approaches; and Lady Utterword stands up looking her absolute best.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Hector, this is Addy.

HECTOR [apparently surprised]. Not this lady.

HECTOR [clearly surprised]. Not this woman.

LADY UTTERWORD [smiling]. Why not?

HECTOR [looking at her with a piercing glance of deep but respectful admiration, his moustache bristling]. I thought— [pulling himself together]. I beg your pardon, Lady Utterword. I am extremely glad to welcome you at last under our roof [he offers his hand with grave courtesy].

HECTOR [looking at her with a sharp, respectful gaze, his mustache bristling]. I thought— [regaining his composure]. I apologize, Lady Utterword. I'm very happy to finally welcome you to our home [he extends his hand with serious courtesy].

MRS HUSHABYE. She wants to be kissed, Hector.

MRS HUSHABYE. She wants you to kiss her, Hector.

LADY UTTERWORD. Hesione! [But she still smiles].

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Call her Addy; and give her a kiss like a good brother-in-law; and let's move on. [She leaves them alone].

HECTOR. Behave yourself, Hesione. Lady Utterword is entitled not only to hospitality but to civilization.

HECTOR. Act appropriately, Hesione. Lady Utterword deserves not just hospitality but also respect and decency.

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

LADY UTTERWORD [gratefully]. Thanks, Hector. [They shake hands warmly].

Mazzini Dunn is seen crossing the garden from starboard to port.

Mazzini Dunn is seen walking across the garden from the right to the left.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [coming from the pantry and addressing Ellie]. Your father has washed himself.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [coming from the pantry and addressing Ellie]. Your dad has cleaned himself up.

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

ELLIE [quite self-assured]. He often does, Captain Shotover.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A strange conversion! I saw him through the pantry window.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That's quite a transformation! I saw him through the pantry window.

Mazzini Dunn enters through the port window door, newly washed and brushed, and stops, smiling benevolently, between Mangan and Mrs Hushabye.

Mazzini Dunn walks in through the port window door, freshly cleaned and groomed, and pauses, smiling kindly, between Mangan and Mrs. Hushabye.

MRS HUSHABYE [introducing]. Mr Mazzini Dunn, Lady Ut—oh, I forgot: you've met. [Indicating Ellie] Miss Dunn.

MRS HUSHABYE [introducing]. Mr. Mazzini Dunn, Lady Ut—oh, I forgot: you've met. [Indicating Ellie] Miss Dunn.

MAZZINI [walking across the room to take Ellie's hand, and beaming at his own naughty irony]. I have met Miss Dunn also. She is my daughter. [He draws her arm through his caressingly].

MAZZINI [walking across the room to take Ellie's hand, and smiling at his own playful irony]. I’ve met Miss Dunn too. She is my daughter. [He gently links her arm through his].

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Of course: how silly! Mr. Utterword, my sister's—uh—

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

RANDALL [shaking hands pleasantly]. Her brother-in-law, Mr. Dunn. Nice to meet you.

MRS HUSHABYE. This is my husband.

HECTOR. We have met, dear. Don't introduce us any more. [He moves away to the big chair, and adds] Won't you sit down, Lady Utterword? [She does so very graciously].

HECTOR. We've met, my dear. No need for further introductions. [He moves to the big chair and adds] Would you like to take a seat, Lady Utterword? [She sits down very graciously].

MRS HUSHABYE. Sorry. I hate it: it's like making people show their tickets.

MRS HUSHABYE. Sorry. I can't stand it: it's like making people show their tickets.

MAZZINI [sententiously]. How little it tells us, after all! The great question is, not who we are, but what we are.

MAZZINI [with authority]. How little it really reveals to us! The important question isn't who we are, but what we are.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ha! What are you?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ha! Who are you?

MAZZINI [taken aback]. What am I?

MAZZINI [surprised]. Who am I?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A thief, a pirate, and a murderer.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A thief, a pirate, and a killer.

MAZZINI. I assure you you are mistaken.

MAZZINI. I promise you, you're wrong.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. An adventurous life; but what does it end in? Respectability. A ladylike daughter. The language and appearance of a city missionary. Let it be a warning to all of you [he goes out through the garden].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. An adventurous life; but where does it lead? Respectability. A refined daughter. The demeanor and looks of a city missionary. Let this be a warning to all of you [he exits through the garden].

DUNN. I hope nobody here believes that I am a thief, a pirate, or a murderer. Mrs Hushabye, will you excuse me a moment? I must really go and explain. [He follows the captain].

DUNN. I hope no one here thinks I'm a thief, a pirate, or a murderer. Mrs. Hushabye, can you give me a moment? I really need to 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 always get some when you want: the servants keep it stewing all day. The kitchen veranda is the best place to ask. May I show you? [She goes to the starboard door].

MRS HUSHABYE [as he leaves]. It's pointless. You really should— [but Dunn has disappeared]. We should all go out and find some tea. We never have proper tea, but you can always get some if you need it: the servants keep it on the stove all day. The kitchen porch is the best place to ask. Can I show you? [She goes to 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—

RANDALL [going with her]. Thank you, but I don't think I'll have any tea this afternoon. But if you could show me the garden—

MRS HUSHABYE. There's nothing to see in the garden except papa's observatory, and a gravel pit with a cave where he keeps dynamite and things of that sort. However, it's pleasanter out of doors; so come along.

MRS HUSHABYE. There's nothing to see in the garden except for Dad's observatory and a gravel pit with a cave where he keeps dynamite and stuff like that. But it's nicer outside, so come on.

RANDALL. Dynamite! Isn't that rather risky?

RANDALL. Dynamite! Isn't that pretty risky?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we don't sit in the gravel pit when there's a thunderstorm.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we don't hang out in the gravel pit during a thunderstorm.

LADY UTTERORRD. That's something new. What is the dynamite for?

LADY UTTERORD. That's something new. What's the dynamite for?

HECTOR. To blow up the human race if it goes too far. He is trying to discover a psychic ray that will explode all the explosive at the well of a Mahatma.

HECTOR. To wipe out humanity if it goes too far. He’s looking to create a psychic ray that will detonate all the explosives at a Mahatma’s well.

ELLIE. The captain's tea is delicious, Mr Utterword.

ELLIE. The captain's tea is really good, Mr. Utterword.

MRS HUSHABYE [stopping in the doorway]. Do you mean to say that you've had some of my father's tea? that you got round him before you were ten minutes in the house?

MRS HUSHABYE [stopping in the doorway]. Are you saying that you've had some of my dad's tea? That you managed to win him over before you were even ten minutes in the house?

ELLIE. I did.

I did.

MRS HUSHABYE. You little devil! [She goes out with Randall].

MRS HUSHABYE. You little troublemaker! [She leaves with Randall].

MANGAN. Won't you come, Miss Ellie?

MANGAN. Will 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 the bookshelf].

ELLIE. I'm too tired. I'm going to take a book to my room and rest for a bit. [She goes to the bookshelf].

MANGAN. Right. You can't do better. But I'm disappointed. [He follows Randall and Mrs Hushabye].

MANGAN. Right. You can't do better. But I'm really disappointed. [He follows Randall and Mrs. Hushabye].

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

Ellie, Hector, and Lady Utterword are the only ones left. Hector is standing near Lady Utterword. They glance at Ellie, waiting for her to leave.

ELLIE [looking at the title of a book]. Do you like stories of adventure, Lady Utterword?

ELLIE [looking at the title of a book]. Do you enjoy adventure stories, Lady Utterword?

LADY UTTERWORD [patronizingly]. Of course, dear.

LADY UTTERWORD [in a patronizing tone]. Of course, darling.

ELLIE. Then I'll leave you to Mr Hushabye. [She goes out through the hall].

ELLIE. Then I'll leave you with Mr. Hushabye. [She exits through the hall].

HECTOR. That girl is mad about tales of adventure. The lies I have to tell her!

HECTOR. That girl is crazy about adventure stories. The things I have to make up for her!

LADY UTTERWORD [not interested in Ellie]. When you saw me what did you mean by saying that you thought, and then stopping short? What did you think?

LADY UTTERWORD [not interested in Ellie]. When you saw me, what did you mean when you said you thought, and then trailed off? What did you think?

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

HECTOR [folding his arms and looking down at her intently]. Can I tell you something?

LADY UTTERWORD. Of course.

LADY UTTERWORD. Absolutely.

HECTOR. It will not sound very civil. I was on the point of saying, "I thought you were a plain woman."

HECTOR. That won't come off as very polite. I was just about to say, "I thought you were an ordinary woman."

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, for shame, Hector! What right had you to notice whether I am plain or not?

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh, come on, Hector! What gives you the right to comment on whether I'm plain or not?

HECTOR. Listen to me, Ariadne. Until today I have seen only photographs of you; and no photograph can give the strange fascination of the daughters of that supernatural old man. There is some damnable quality in them that destroys men's moral sense, and carries them beyond honor and dishonor. You know that, don't you?

HECTOR. Listen to me, Ariadne. Until today, I've only seen pictures of you; and no picture can capture the strange allure of the daughters of that extraordinary old man. There's something wicked about them that disrupts men's moral judgment and pushes them past what’s honorable and dishonorable. You understand that, right?

LADY UTTERWORD. Perhaps I do, Hector. But let me warn you once for all that I am a rigidly conventional woman. You may think because I'm a Shotover that I'm a Bohemian, because we are all so horribly Bohemian. But I'm not. I hate and loathe Bohemianism. No child brought up in a strict Puritan household ever suffered from Puritanism as I suffered from our Bohemianism.

LADY UTTERWORD. Maybe I do, Hector. But let me tell you upfront that I'm a very conventional woman. You might think that just because I'm a Shotover, I'm a free spirit, since we’re all so infamously free-spirited. But I'm not. I hate and detest that lifestyle. No child raised in a strict Puritan household has suffered from Puritanism the way I’ve suffered from our free-spirited life.

HECTOR. Our children are like that. They spend their holidays in the houses of their respectable schoolfellows.

HECTOR. Our kids are like that. They spend their vacations at the homes of their respectable classmates.

LADY UTTERWORD. I shall invite them for Christmas.

LADY UTTERWORD. I'm going to invite them for Christmas.

HECTOR. Their absence leaves us both without our natural chaperones.

HECTOR. Their absence leaves us both without our usual escorts.

LADY UTTERWORD. Children are certainly very inconvenient sometimes. But intelligent people can always manage, unless they are Bohemians.

LADY UTTERWORD. Kids can definitely be pretty inconvenient at times. But smart people can always handle it, unless they're Bohemians.

HECTOR. You are no Bohemian; but you are no Puritan either: your attraction is alive and powerful. What sort of woman do you count yourself?

HECTOR. You’re not a free spirit, but you’re not a strict or uptight person either: your appeal is vibrant and strong. What kind of woman do you see yourself as?

LADY UTTERWORD. I am a woman of the world, Hector; and I can assure you that if you will only take the trouble always to do the perfectly correct thing, and to say the perfectly correct thing, you can do just what you like. An ill-conducted, careless woman gets simply no chance. An ill-conducted, careless man is never allowed within arm's length of any woman worth knowing.

LADY UTTERWORD. I'm a worldly woman, Hector; and I can assure you that if you just make the effort to always do the right thing and say the right thing, you can do whatever you want. A poorly behaved, careless woman gets no opportunities. A poorly behaved, careless man is never allowed near any woman worth knowing.

HECTOR. I see. You are neither a Bohemian woman nor a Puritan woman. You are a dangerous woman.

HECTOR. I get it. You're neither a free-spirited woman nor a strict woman. You're a dangerous woman.

LADY UTTERWORD. On the contrary, I am a safe woman.

LADY UTTERWORD. Actually, I’m a very reliable woman.

HECTOR. You are a most accursedly attractive woman. Mind, I am not making love to you. I do not like being attracted. But you had better know how I feel if you are going to stay here.

HECTOR. You are an incredibly attractive woman. Just to be clear, I’m not hitting on you. I don’t enjoy being drawn to you. But you should know how I feel if you’re going to be here.

LADY UTTERWORD. You are an exceedingly clever lady-killer, Hector. And terribly handsome. I am quite a good player, myself, at that game. Is it quite understood that we are only playing?

LADY UTTERWORD. You’re quite the charming lady-killer, Hector. And really good-looking, too. I’m not too shabby at that game myself. Just to be clear, are we only playing around?

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

HECTOR. Exactly. I'm intentionally acting foolish, just because I feel worthless.

LADY UTTERWORD [rising brightly]. Well, you are my brother-in-law, Hesione asked you to kiss me. [He seizes her in his arms and kisses her strenuously]. Oh! that was a little more than play, brother-in-law. [She pushes him suddenly away]. You shall not do that again.

LADY UTTERWORD [standing up cheerfully]. Well, you’re my brother-in-law, and Hesione told you to kiss me. [He grabs her in his arms and kisses her passionately]. Oh! That was a bit more than just for fun, brother-in-law. [She suddenly pushes him away]. Don’t do that again.

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

HECTOR. Basically, you got your hooks into me more than I planned.

MRS HUBHABYE [coming in from the garden]. Don't let me disturb you; I only want a cap to put on daddiest. The sun is setting; and he'll catch cold [she makes for the door leading to the hall].

MRS HUBHABYE [coming in from the garden]. Don’t let me interrupt you; I just need a cap for daddiest. The sun is setting, and he might get cold [she heads for the door leading to the hall].

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband is quite charming, darling. He has actually condescended to kiss me at last. I shall go into the garden: it's cooler now [she goes out by the port door].

LADY UTTERWORD. Your husband is really charming, sweetheart. He finally took the time to kiss me. I'm going to head into the garden; it's cooler out there now [she goes out by the port door].

MRS HUSHABYE. Take care, dear child. I don't believe any man can kiss Addy without falling in love with her. [She goes into the hall].

MRS HUSHABYE. Be careful, sweetie. I don't think any guy can kiss Addy without falling for her. [She goes into the hall].

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

HECTOR [hitting his chest]. Idiot! Goat!

Mrs Hushabye comes back with the captain's cap.

Mrs. Hushabye comes back with the captain's hat.

HECTOR. Your sister is an extremely enterprising old girl. Where's Miss Dunn!

HECTOR. Your sister is a very resourceful old gal. Where's Miss Dunn?

MRS HUSHABYE. Mangan says she has gone up to her room for a nap. Addy won't let you talk to Ellie: she has marked you for her own.

MRS HUSHABYE. Mangan says she’s gone up to her room to take a nap. Addy won’t let you talk to Ellie; she’s claimed you for herself.

HECTOR. She has the diabolical family fascination. I began making love to her automatically. What am I to do? I can't fall in love; and I can't hurt a woman's feelings by telling her so when she falls in love with me. And as women are always falling in love with my moustache I get landed in all sorts of tedious and terrifying flirtations in which I'm not a bit in earnest.

HECTOR. She has this crazy family fascination. I started making love to her without even thinking. What am I supposed to do? I can't fall in love, and I can't hurt a woman's feelings by telling her that when she develops feelings for me. And since women are always attracted to my mustache, I end up caught in all sorts of boring and scary flirtations that I'm not serious about at all.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, neither is Addy. She has never been in love in her life, though she has always been trying to fall in head over ears. She is worse than you, because you had one real go at least, with me.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Addy isn’t either. She’s never been in love at all, even though she’s always trying to fall head over heels. She’s worse than you, because at least you had one real attempt with me.

HECTOR. That was a confounded madness. I can't believe that such an amazing experience is common. It has left its mark on me. I believe that is why I have never been able to repeat it.

HECTOR. That was absolute madness. I can't believe that such an amazing experience is so common. It's left a lasting impact on me. I think that's why I've never been able to recreate it.

MRS HUSHABYE [laughing and caressing his arm]. We were frightfully in love with one another, Hector. It was such an enchanting dream that I have never been able to grudge it to you or anyone else since. I have invited all sorts of pretty women to the house on the chance of giving you another turn. But it has never come off.

MRS HUSHABYE [laughing and caressing his arm]. We were madly in love with each other, Hector. It was such a magical dream that I’ve never been able to be jealous about it with you or anyone else since. I've invited all kinds of beautiful women to the house hoping to give you another chance. But it hasn't happened.

HECTOR. I don't know that I want it to come off. It was damned dangerous. You fascinated me; but I loved you; so it was heaven. This sister of yours fascinates me; but I hate her; so it is hell. I shall kill her if she persists.

HECTOR. I’m not sure I want it to go away. It was really risky. You captivated me; but I loved you; so it felt amazing. This sister of yours intrigues me; but I can't stand her; so it feels awful. I’ll kill her if she keeps it up.

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

MRS. HUSHABYE. Nothing can hurt Addy; she’s as strong as an ox. [Releasing him]. Now I'm going off to charm someone.

HECTOR. The Foreign Office toff? Randall?

HECTOR. The fancy guy from the Foreign Office? Randall?

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh my goodness, no! Why would I want to captivate him?

HECTOR. I presume you don't mean the bloated capitalist, Mangan?

HECTOR. I assume you’re not talking about the greedy capitalist, Mangan?

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! I think he had better be fascinated by me than by Ellie. [She is going into the garden when the captain comes in from it with some sticks in his hand]. What have you got there, daddiest?

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! I think he should be more interested in me than in Ellie. [She is heading into the garden when the captain comes in from it with some sticks in his hand]. What do you have there, Dad?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dynamite.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Explosives.

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].

MRS HUSHABYE. You've been to the gravel pit. Please don't make a mess in the house, sweetie. [She goes into the garden, where the evening light is now very red].

HECTOR. Listen, O sage. How long dare you concentrate on a feeling without risking having it fixed in your consciousness all the rest of your life?

HECTOR. Listen, O wise one. How long can you focus on a feeling without the risk of it becoming a permanent part of your mind for the rest of your life?

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

Hector, left alone, contracts his brows, and falls into a day-dream. He does not move for some time. Then he folds his arms. Then, throwing his hands behind him, and gripping one with the other, he strides tragically once to and fro. Suddenly he snatches his walking stick from the teak table, and draws it; for it is a swordstick. He fights a desperate duel with an imaginary antagonist, and after many vicissitudes runs him through the body up to the hilt. He sheathes his sword and throws it on the sofa, falling into another reverie as he does so. He looks straight into the eyes of an imaginary woman; seizes her by the arms; and says in a deep and thrilling tone, "Do you love me!" The captain comes out of the pantry at this moment; and Hector, caught with his arms stretched out and his fists clenched, has to account for his attitude by going through a series of gymnastic exercises.

Hector, left alone, furrows his brow and drifts into a daydream. He stands still for a while. Then he crosses his arms. Next, he throws his hands behind his back, intertwining his fingers, and dramatically paces back and forth. Suddenly, he grabs his walking stick from the teak table and pulls it out, revealing that it's a swordstick. He engages in a fierce duel with an imaginary opponent and, after several twists and turns, he runs him through the torso with the sword. He puts the sword away and tosses it onto the sofa, slipping into another daydream as he does. He gazes intently into the eyes of an imaginary woman, grabs her by the arms, and says in a deep, exciting voice, "Do you love me!" At this moment, the captain walks out of the pantry, and Hector, caught with his arms outstretched and fists clenched, has to justify his position by performing a series of gymnastic moves.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That sort of strength is no good. You will never be as strong as a gorilla.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That kind of strength is useless. You will never be as strong as a gorilla.

HECTOR. What is the dynamite for?

HECTOR. What's the dynamite for?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. To kill fellows like Mangan.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. To take out guys like Mangan.

HECTOR. No use. They will always be able to buy more dynamite than you.

HECTOR. No point. They'll always be able to buy more dynamite than you can.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I will make a dynamite that he cannot explode.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I will create a dynamite that he can't set off.

HECTOR. And that you can, eh?

HECTOR. So you can do that, right?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes: when I have attained the seventh degree of concentration.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yeah: when I’ve reached the seventh level of focus.

HECTOR. What's the use of that? You never do attain it.

HECTOR. What's the point of that? You never actually achieve it.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What then is to be done? Are we to be kept forever in the mud by these hogs to whom the universe is nothing but a machine for greasing their bristles and filling their snouts?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. So what are we supposed to do? Are we going to be stuck in the muck forever because of these pigs who see the universe as just a machine for oiling their bristles and stuffing their faces?

HECTOR. Are Mangan's bristles worse than Randall's lovelocks?

HECTOR. Are Mangan's bristles worse than Randall's styled locks?

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. We have to gain control of life and death over both of them. I won't accept death until I've figured out a way to do it.

HECTOR. Who are we that we should judge them?

HECTOR. Who are we to judge them?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What are they that they should judge us? Yet they do, unhesitatingly. There is enmity between our seed and their seed. They know it and act on it, strangling our souls. They believe in themselves. When we believe in ourselves, we shall kill them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Who do they think they are to judge us? Yet they do, without hesitation. There’s a deep hostility between our kind and theirs. They recognize it and use it against us, suffocating our spirits. They have faith in themselves. When we have faith in ourselves, we will defeat them.

HECTOR. It is the same seed. You forget that your pirate has a very nice daughter. Mangan's son may be a Plato: Randall's a Shelley. What was my father?

HECTOR. It's the same seed. You forget that your pirate has a very nice daughter. Mangan's son might be a Plato: Randall's a Shelley. What was my father?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The damnedst scoundrel I ever met. [He replaces the drawing-board; sits down at the table; and begins to mix a wash of color].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The biggest scoundrel I've ever encountered. [He puts the drawing board back, sits down at the table, and starts mixing a wash of color].

HECTOR. Precisely. Well, dare you kill his innocent grandchildren?

HECTOR. Exactly. So, do you really want to kill his innocent grandchildren?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They are mine also.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They're also mine.

HECTOR. Just so—we are members one of another. [He throws himself carelessly on the sofa]. I tell you I have often thought of this killing of human vermin. Many men have thought of it. Decent men are like Daniel in the lion's den: their survival is a miracle; and they do not always survive. We live among the Mangans and Randalls and Billie Dunns as they, poor devils, live among the disease germs and the doctors and the lawyers and the parsons and the restaurant chefs and the tradesmen and the servants and all the rest of the parasites and blackmailers. What are our terrors to theirs? Give me the power to kill them; and I'll spare them in sheer—

HECTOR. Exactly—we're all connected. [He flops down on the sofa]. I’ve often thought about getting rid of the worst people out there. A lot of guys have thought about it. Good people are like Daniel in the lion's den: their survival is a miracle; and they don’t always make it out. We live among the Mangans and Randalls and Billie Dunns just as they, poor souls, exist among germs, doctors, lawyers, preachers, chefs, tradespeople, servants, and all sorts of other leeches and blackmailers. What are our fears compared to theirs? Give me the power to eliminate them; and I'll hold back simply—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [cutting in sharply]. Fellow feeling?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [interrupting sharply]. Sympathy?

HECTOR. No. I should kill myself if I believed that. I must believe that my spark, small as it is, is divine, and that the red light over their door is hell fire. I should spare them in simple magnanimous pity.

HECTOR. No. I would kill myself if I believed that. I have to believe that my spark, even though it's small, is divine, and that the red light above their door is hellfire. I should spare them out of pure magnanimous pity.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You can't spare them until you have the power to kill them. At present they have the power to kill you. There are millions of blacks over the water for them to train and let loose on us. They're going to do it. They're doing it already.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You can't get rid of them until you can overpower them. Right now, they have the ability to take you down. There are millions of black people across the water for them to train and unleash on us. They are going to do it. They’re already in the process of doing it.

HECTOR. They are too stupid to use their power.

HECTOR. They're too stupid to use their power.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [throwing down his brush and coming to the end of the sofa]. Do not deceive yourself: they do use it. We kill the better half of ourselves every day to propitiate them. The knowledge that these people are there to render all our aspirations barren prevents us having the aspirations. And when we are tempted to seek their destruction they bring forth demons to delude us, disguised as pretty daughters, and singers and poets and the like, for whose sake we spare them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [throwing down his brush and coming to the end of the sofa]. Don't kid yourself: they really do use it. We sacrifice the best parts of ourselves every day to please them. Knowing that these people are there to crush all our hopes stops us from having any hopes in the first place. And when we’re tempted to seek their downfall, they conjure up illusions to trick us, appearing as beautiful daughters, singers, poets, and so on, and for their sake, we let them off the hook.

HECTOR [sitting up and leaning towards him]. May not Hesione be such a demon, brought forth by you lest I should slay you?

HECTOR [sitting up and leaning towards him]. Could Hesione be some kind of demon, created by you to prevent me from killing you?

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That could be true. She’s drained you, leaving you with nothing but dreams, like some women do.

HECTOR. Vampire women, demon women.

HECTOR. Vampire ladies, demon ladies.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Men think the world well lost for them, and lose it accordingly. Who are the men that do things? The husbands of the shrew and of the drunkard, the men with the thorn in the flesh. [Walking distractedly away towards the pantry]. I must think these things out. [Turning suddenly]. But I go on with the dynamite none the less. I will discover a ray mightier than any X-ray: a mind ray that will explode the ammunition in the belt of my adversary before he can point his gun at me. And I must hurry. I am old: I have no time to waste in talk [he is about to go into the pantry, and Hector is making for the hall, when Hesione comes back].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. People think it's worth losing everything for themselves, and they lose it just the same. Who are the people that actually get things done? The husbands of the nagging wife and the drunkard, the ones grappling with their own struggles. [Walking distractedly away towards the pantry]. I need to figure this out. [Turning suddenly]. But I'm moving forward with the dynamite anyway. I will find a ray more powerful than any X-ray: a mind ray that will blow up the ammunition in my enemy's belt before he can aim his gun at me. And I need to be quick. I'm old: I have no time to waste talking [he is about to go into the pantry, and Hector is heading for the hall, when Hesione comes back].

MRS HUSHABYE. Daddiest, you and Hector must come and help me to entertain all these people. What on earth were you shouting about?

MRS HUSHABYE. Dad, you and Hector need to come help me entertain all these people. What were you yelling about?

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

HECTOR [stopping as he turns the door handle]. He’s angrier than usual.

MRS HUSHABYE. We all are.

We all are.

HECTOR. I must change [he resumes his door opening].

HECTOR. I need to change [he continues opening the door].

MRS HUSHABYE. Stop, stop. Come back, both of you. Come back. [They return, reluctantly]. Money is running short.

MRS HUSHABYE: Hold on, hold on. Come back, both of you. Come back. [They return, not wanting to]. We're running low on money.

HECTOR. Money! Where are my April dividends?

MRS HUSHABYE. Where is the snow that fell last year?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Where is all the money you had for that patent lifeboat I invented?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Where's all the money you had for the patent on that lifeboat I invented?

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

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

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

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Since Easter! Just under four months! What a ridiculous waste of money! I could survive for seven years on 500 pounds.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not keeping open house as we do here, daddiest.

MRS HUSHABYE. We don't keep our house as open as we do here, Dad.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Only 500 pounds for that lifeboat! I got twelve thousand for the invention before that.

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes, dear; but that was for the ship with the magnetic keel that sucked up submarines. Living at the rate we do, you cannot afford life-saving inventions. Can't you think of something that will murder half Europe at one bang?

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes, dear; but that was for the ship with the magnetic keel that sucked up submarines. Living the way we do, you can’t afford life-saving inventions. Can’t you come up with something that will wipe out half of Europe in one go?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. I am ageing fast. My mind does not dwell on slaughter as it did when I was a boy. Why doesn't your husband invent something? He does nothing but tell lies to women.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. I’m aging quickly. My mind doesn’t linger on violence like it used to when I was younger. Why doesn’t your husband create something? All he does is lie to women.

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

HECTOR. Well, that's a kind of invention, isn't it? But you're right: I should support my wife.

MRS HUSHABYE. Indeed you shall do nothing of the sort: I should never see you from breakfast to dinner. I want my husband.

MRS HUSHABYE. Absolutely not: I wouldn't see you from breakfast to dinner. I want my husband.

HECTOR [bitterly]. I might as well be your lapdog.

HECTOR [bitterly]. I might as well be your pet.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you want to be my breadwinner, like all the other struggling husbands?

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

HECTOR. No way! What a terrible creature a husband is, anyway!

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

MRS HUSHABYE [to the captain]. What’s going on with that harpoon cannon?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No use. It kills whales, not men.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No point. It kills whales, not people.

MRS HUSHABYE. Why not? You fire the harpoon out of a cannon. It sticks in the enemy's general; you wind him in; and there you are.

MRS HUSHABYE. Why not? You shoot the harpoon from a cannon. It hits the enemy's general; you reel him in; and there you go.

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

HECTOR. You’re just like your father, Hesione.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There is something in it. Not to wind in generals: they are not dangerous. But one could fire a grapnel and wind in a machine gun or even a tank. I will think it out.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There's something to it. Not to reel in generals: they aren't a threat. But one could haul in a grappling hook and pull in a machine gun or even a tank. I'll work on it.

MRS HUSHABYE [squeezing the captain's arm affectionately]. Saved! You are a darling, daddiest. Now we must go back to these dreadful people and entertain them.

MRS HUSHABYE [squeezing the captain's arm affectionately]. You saved us! You’re such a sweetheart, darling. Now we have to go back to those awful people and keep them entertained.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They have had no dinner. Don't forget that.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. They haven't had dinner. Remember that.

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

HECTOR. I haven't either. And it’s dark: it must be really late.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Guinness will produce some sort of dinner for them. The servants always take jolly good care that there is food in the house.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Guinness will whip up some kind of dinner for them. The staff always makes sure there's plenty of food in the house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising a strange wail in the darkness]. What a house! What a daughter!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising a strange wail in the darkness]. What a place! What a daughter!

MRS HUSHABYE [raving]. What a father!

MRS HUSHABYE [raving]. What a dad!

HECTOR [following suit]. What a husband!

HECTOR [following suit]. What a great husband!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is there no thunder in heaven?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is there no thunder up in the sky?

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

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

MRS HUSHABYE. What do men want? They have their food, their firesides, their clothes mended, and our love at the end of the day. Why are they not satisfied? Why do they envy us the pain with which we bring them into the world, and make strange dangers and torments for themselves to be even with us?

MRS HUSHABYE. What do men really want? They have their meals, their cozy spots by the fire, their clothes fixed, and our love waiting for them at the end of the day. Why aren’t they content? Why do they envy the pain we go through to bring them into the world and create strange dangers and suffering for themselves just to be on the same level as us?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [weirdly chanting].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [chanting strangely].

      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;

      I built a house for my daughters and opened its doors,  
      So that men could come to choose, and their future partners could come from their love;  
      But one of them married an idiot;

HECTOR [taking up the rhythm].

HECTOR [joining the beat].

      The other a liar wed;

The other is a liar;

MRS HUSHABYE [completing the stanza].

MRS HUSHABYE [finishing the stanza].

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

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

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

HECTOR. The cat is on the tiles.

HECTOR. The cat is on the roof tiles.

MRS HUSHABYE. Coming, darling, coming [she goes quickly into the garden].

MRS HUSHABYE. I’m coming, darling, I’m coming [she quickly heads into the garden].

The captain goes back to his place at the table.

The captain returns to his seat at the table.

HECTOR [going out into the hall]. Shall I turn up the lights for you?

HECTOR [walking into the hall]. Do you want me to turn up the lights for you?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. Give me deeper darkness. Money is not made in the light.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. I want more darkness. Money isn't made in the light.

ACT II

The same room, with the lights turned up and the curtains drawn. Ellie comes in, followed by Mangan. Both are dressed for dinner. She strolls to the drawing-table. He comes between the table and the wicker chair.

The same room, with the lights on and the curtains closed. Ellie walks in, followed by Mangan. Both are dressed for dinner. She walks over to the drawing table. He stands between the table and the wicker chair.

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

MANGAN. What a dinner! I don't think of it as dinner: I see it as a meal.

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

ELLIE. I'm used to meals, Mr. Mangan, and I'm really fortunate to have them. Plus, the captain made me some macaroni.

MANGAN [shuddering liverishly]. Too rich: I can't eat such things. I suppose it's because 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 take the opportunity to come to a little understanding with you?

MANGAN [shuddering slightly]. It's too rich; I can't eat stuff like this. I guess it's because I have to use my brain so much. That's the downside of being a businessman: you're always thinking, thinking, thinking. By the way, now that we're alone, can I take a moment to come to an agreement with you?

ELLIE [settling into the draughtsman's seat]. Certainly. I should like to.

ELLIE [settling into the draughtsman's seat]. Sure. I'd like to.

MANGAN [taken aback]. Should you? That surprises me; for I thought I noticed this afternoon that you avoided me all you could. Not for the first time either.

MANGAN [taken aback]. Should you? That surprises me; I thought I noticed this afternoon that you avoided me as much as possible. Not for the first time either.

ELLIE. I was very tired and upset. I wasn't used to the ways of this extraordinary house. Please forgive me.

ELLIE. I was really tired and distressed. This unusual house was so new to me. Please forgive me.

MANGAN. Oh, that's all right: I don't mind. But Captain Shotover has been talking to me about you. You and me, you know.

MANGAN. Oh, that's cool: I don't care. But Captain Shotover has been telling me about you. You and me, you know.

ELLIE [interested]. The captain! What did he say?

MANGAN. Well, he noticed the difference between our ages.

MANGAN. Well, he noticed the difference in our ages.

ELLIE. He notices everything.

ELLIE. He notices it all.

MANGAN. You don't mind, then?

MANGAN. Is that okay with you?

ELLIE. Of course I know quite well that our engagement—

ELLIE. Of course, I know very well that our engagement—

MANGAN. Oh! you call it an engagement.

MANGAN. Oh! you refer to it as 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've used the word; and I didn't quite know where we stood: that's all. [He sits down in the wicker chair; and resigns himself to allow her to lead the conversation]. You were saying—?

MANGAN. Oh, yes, absolutely: it definitely is if you believe in it. This is the first time you've mentioned that word, and I wasn’t sure where we stood: that's all. [He sits down in the wicker chair and resigns himself to let her steer the conversation]. You were saying—?

ELLIE. Was I? I forget. Tell me. Do you like this part of the country? I heard you ask Mr Hushabye at dinner whether there are any nice houses to let down here.

ELLIE. Was I? I can’t remember. Tell me. Do you like this part of the country? I heard you ask Mr. Hushabye at dinner if there are any nice houses for rent around here.

MANGAN. I like the place. The air suits me. I shouldn't be surprised if I settled down here.

MANGAN. I really like this place. The air agrees with me. I wouldn't be surprised if I decided to settle down here.

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

ELLIE. Nothing would make me happier. The air is perfect for me too. And I want to be close to Hesione.

MANGAN [with growing uneasiness]. The air may suit us; but the question is, should we suit one another? Have you thought about that?

MANGAN [with growing unease]. The environment might work for us; but the real question is, should we work for each other? Have you considered that?

ELLIE. Mr Mangan, we must be sensible, mustn't we? It's no use pretending that we are Romeo and Juliet. But we can get on very well together if we choose to make the best of it. Your kindness of heart will make it easy for me.

ELLIE. Mr. Mangan, we need to be sensible, right? There's no point in pretending we're Romeo and Juliet. But we can have a good relationship if we decide to make the most of it. Your kind heart will make it easy for me.

MANGAN [leaning forward, with the beginning of something like deliberate unpleasantness in his voice]. Kindness of heart, eh? I ruined your father, didn't I?

MANGAN [leaning forward, with a hint of intentional unpleasantness in his voice]. Kindness of heart, huh? I messed up your father, didn't I?

ELLIE. Oh, not intentionally.

ELLIE. Oh, not on purpose.

MANGAN. Yes I did. Ruined him on purpose.

MANGAN. Yeah, I did. I messed him up on purpose.

ELLIE. On purpose!

ELLIE. Deliberately!

MANGAN. Not out of ill-nature, you know. And you'll admit that I kept a job for him when I had finished with him. But business is business; and I ruined him as a matter of business.

MANGAN. It’s not out of bad intentions, you know. And you have to admit that I kept him employed after I was done with him. But business is business; and I took him down as part of doing business.

ELLIE. I don't understand how that can be. Are you trying to make me feel that I need not be grateful to you, so that I may choose freely?

ELLIE. I don't get how that works. Are you trying to make me feel like I don't have to be thankful to you, so I can choose freely?

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

MANGAN [standing up forcefully]. No. I mean it.

ELLIE. But how could it possibly do you any good to ruin my father? The money he lost was yours.

ELLIE. But how could ruining my dad possibly help you? The money he lost was yours.

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

MANGAN [with a sarcastic laugh]. It was mine! It is mine, Miss Ellie, and all the money the other guys lost too. [He puts his hands in his pockets and grins]. I just chased them away like a swarm of bees. What do you think about that? A little surprising, huh?

ELLIE. It would have been, this morning. Now! you can't think how little it matters. But it's quite interesting. Only, you must explain it to me. I don't understand it. [Propping her elbows on the drawingboard and her chin on her hands, she composes herself to listen with a combination of conscious curiosity with unconscious contempt which provokes him to more and more unpleasantness, and an attempt at patronage of her ignorance].

ELLIE. This morning it would have mattered. But now? You have no idea how little it actually matters. Still, it's kind of interesting. You just need to explain it to me. I don't get it. [She props her elbows on the drawing board and rests her chin on her hands, getting ready to listen with a mix of deliberate curiosity and unspoken disdain, which only makes him act more unpleasantly, while she tries to come off as superior to her own lack of understanding].

MANGAN. Of course you don't understand: what do you know about business? You just listen and learn. Your father's business was a new business; and I don't start new businesses: I let other fellows start them. They put all their money and their friends' money into starting them. They wear out their souls and bodies trying to make a success of them. They're what you call enthusiasts. But the first dead lift of the thing is too much for them; and they haven't enough financial experience. In a year or so they have either to let the whole show go bust, or sell out to a new lot of fellows for a few deferred ordinary shares: that is, if they're lucky enough to get anything at all. As likely as not the very same thing happens to the new lot. They put in more money and a couple of years' more work; and then perhaps they have to sell out to a third lot. If it's really a big thing the third lot will have to sell out too, and leave their work and their money behind them. And that'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 start the process. I took your father's measure. I saw that he had a sound idea, and that he would work himself silly for it if he got the chance. I saw that he was a child in business, and was dead certain to outrun his expenses and be in too great a hurry to wait for his market. I knew that the surest way to ruin a man who doesn't know how to handle money is to give him some. I explained my idea to some friends in the city, and they found the money; for I take no risks in ideas, even when they're my own. Your father and the friends that ventured their money with him were no more to me than a heap of squeezed lemons. You've been wasting your gratitude: my kind heart is all rot. I'm sick of it. When I see your father beaming at me with his moist, grateful eyes, regularly wallowing in gratitude, I sometimes feel I must tell him the truth or burst. What stops me is that I know he wouldn't believe me. He'd think it was my modesty, as you did just now. He'd think anything rather than the truth, which is that he's a blamed fool, and I am a man that knows how to take care of himself. [He throws himself back into the big chair with large self approval]. Now what do you think of me, Miss Ellie?

MANGAN. Of course you don’t get it: what do you know about business? You just listen and learn. Your dad’s business was a startup, and I don’t launch new businesses; I let others do that. They invest all their money and their friends’ money to get things going. They exhaust themselves trying to make it work. They’re what you’d call enthusiastic. But the initial challenges are too much for them, and they lack the financial know-how. In a year or so, they either have to let it all crash or sell out to a new group for some deferred shares, if they’re lucky enough to get anything at all. Chances are, the new group faces the same fate. They invest more money and a couple more years of effort; then maybe they have to sell to a third group. If it’s a big deal, that third group might also have to sell out, leaving their hard work and money behind. And that’s where the real businessman comes in: where I come in. But I’m smarter than most: I don’t mind putting in a bit of cash to kick things off. I sized up your dad. I saw he had a solid idea and would work himself to the bone for it if given the chance. I knew he was a novice in business and would definitely outspend his budget, rushing ahead without waiting for the market. I understood that the quickest way to ruin someone who doesn’t know how to manage money is to give them some. I pitched my idea to some friends in the city, and they provided the funding because I don’t take risks on ideas, even when they’re mine. Your dad and the friends who risked their money with him were nothing more to me than a pile of used lemons. You’ve been wasting your gratitude: my supposed kindness is all fake. I’m tired of it. When I see your dad smiling at me with his grateful eyes, drowning in appreciation, I sometimes feel like I have to tell him the truth or I’ll explode. What stops me is knowing he wouldn’t believe me. He’d think it’s my modesty, just like you did a moment ago. He’d believe anything except the truth, which is that he’s a total fool, and I’m a guy who knows how to look out for himself. [He throws himself back into the big chair with considerable self-approval]. So what do you think of me, Miss Ellie?

ELLIE [dropping her hands]. How strange! that my mother, who knew nothing at all about business, should have been quite right about you! She always said not before papa, of course, but to us children—that you were just that sort of man.

ELLIE [dropping her hands]. How odd! that my mom, who didn’t know anything about business, was completely right about you! She always said, not in front of dad, of course, but to us kids—that you were exactly that kind of guy.

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

MANGAN [sitting up, very hurt]. Oh! Did she? And yet she would have let you marry me.

ELLIE. Well, you see, Mr Mangan, my mother married a very good man—for whatever you may think of my father as a man of business, he is the soul of goodness—and she is not at all keen on my doing the same.

ELLIE. Well, you see, Mr. Mangan, my mom married a really good guy—for whatever you might think of my dad as a businessman, he’s a truly good person—and she’s not really interested in me doing the same.

MANGAN. Anyhow, you don't want to marry me now, do you?

MANGAN. Anyway, you don't want to marry me right now, do you?

ELLIE. [very calmly]. Oh, I think so. Why not?

MANGAN. [rising aghast]. Why not!

MANGAN. [rising in shock]. Why not!

ELLIE. I don't see why we shouldn't get on very well together.

ELLIE. I don't see why we can't get along really well.

MANGAN. Well, but look here, you know—[he stops, quite at a loss].

MANGAN. Well, but look, you know—[he stops, completely at a loss].

ELLIE. [patiently]. Well?

ELLIE. [patiently]. So?

MANGAN. Well, I thought you were rather particular about people's characters.

MANGAN. Well, I thought you cared a lot about people's personalities.

ELLIE. If we women were particular about men's characters, we should never get married at all, Mr Mangan.

ELLIE. If we women were picky about men's personalities, we would never get married at all, Mr. Mangan.

MANGAN. A child like you talking of "we women"! What next! You're not in earnest?

MANGAN. A kid like you talking about "we women"! What's next! You can't be serious?

ELLIE. Yes, I am. Aren't you?

ELLIE. Yeah, I am. Aren't you?

MANGAN. You mean to hold me to it?

MANGAN. You really want to hold me to that?

ELLIE. Do you wish to back out of it?

ELLIE. Do you want to back out of it?

MANGAN. Oh, no. Not exactly back out of it.

MANGAN. Oh, no. Not really backing out of it.

ELLIE. Well?

ELLIE. So?

He has nothing to say. With a long whispered whistle, he drops into the wicker chair and 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.

He has nothing to say. With a long, quiet whistle, he sinks into the wicker chair and stares ahead like a broke gambler. But a sly expression quickly appears on his face. He leans over toward her on his right elbow and speaks in a low, steady voice.

MANGAN. Suppose I told you I was in love with another woman!

MANGAN. What if I said I was in love with another woman?

ELLIE [echoing him]. Suppose I told you I was in love with another man!

ELLIE [echoing him]. What if I said I was in love with another guy!

MANGAN [bouncing angrily out of his chair]. I'm not joking.

MANGAN [jumping up angrily from his chair]. I'm serious.

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 believe me. I want to be near your friend Mrs Hushabye. I'm in love with her. Now the murder's out.

MANGAN. I’m telling you I’m serious. You’re too young to take things seriously; but you need to believe me. I want to be close to your friend Mrs. Hushabye. I’m in love with her. Now the secret’s out.

ELLIE. I want to be near your friend Mr Hushabye. I'm in love with him. [She rises and adds with a frank air] Now we are in one another's confidence, we shall be real friends. Thank you for telling me.

ELLIE. I want to be close to your friend Mr. Hushabye. I'm in love with him. [She stands up and adds with an honest tone] Now that we're being open with each other, we can be true friends. Thank you for letting me know.

MANGAN [almost beside himself]. Do you think I'll be made a convenience of like this?

MANGAN [almost beside himself]. Do you really think I'm going to be used like this?

ELLIE. Come, Mr Mangan! you made a business convenience of my father. Well, a woman's business is marriage. Why shouldn't I make a domestic convenience of you?

ELLIE. Come on, Mr. Mangan! You took advantage of my father's situation for your own convenience. Well, a woman's role is to get married. Why shouldn't I make things easier for myself with you?

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

MANGAN. Because I don't choose, you see? Because I'm not a foolish gull like your dad. That's why.

ELLIE [with serene contempt]. You are not good enough to clean my father's boots, Mr Mangan; and I am paying you a great compliment in condescending to make a convenience of you, as you call it. Of course you are free to throw over our engagement if you like; but, if you do, you'll never enter Hesione's house again: I will take care of that.

ELLIE [with calm disdain]. You’re not even good enough to clean my father's boots, Mr. Mangan; and I’m actually giving you a huge compliment by stooping to make use of you, as you put it. Of course, you can end our engagement if you want; but if you do, you’ll never set foot in Hesione’s house again: I’ll make sure of that.

MANGAN [gasping]. You little devil, you've done me. [On the point of collapsing into the big chair again he recovers himself]. Wait a bit, though: you're not so cute as you think. You can't beat Boss Mangan as easy as that. Suppose I go straight to Mrs Hushabye and tell her that you're in love with her husband.

MANGAN [gasping]. You little troublemaker, you've caught me. [Just about to collapse back into the big chair, he steadies himself]. Hold on a second, though: you're not nearly as clever as you think. You can't take down Boss Mangan that easily. What if I just go straight to Mrs. Hushabye and tell her you're in love with her husband?

ELLIE. She knows it.

ELLIE. She gets it.

MANGAN. You told her!!!

MANGAN. You really told her!!!

ELLIE. She told me.

ELLIE. She said.

MANGAN [clutching at his bursting temples]. Oh, this is a crazy house. Or else I'm going clean off my chump. Is she making a swop with you—she to have your husband and you to have hers?

MANGAN [holding his head]. Oh, this place is crazy. Or I might lose my mind. Is she swapping with you—she gets your husband and you get hers?

ELLIE. Well, you don't want us both, do you?

ELLIE. Well, you don't want both of us, do you?

MANGAN [throwing himself into the chair distractedly]. My brain won't stand it. My head's going to split. Help! Help me to hold it. Quick: hold it: squeeze it. Save me. [Ellie comes behind his chair; clasps his head hard for a moment; then begins to draw her hands from his forehead back to his ears]. Thank you. [Drowsily]. That's very refreshing. [Waking a little]. Don't you hypnotize me, though. I've seen men made fools of by hypnotism.

MANGAN [flopping down in the chair, looking distracted]. I can’t take it anymore. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Help! Hold my head. Quick, squeeze it. Save me. [Ellie comes up behind his chair and tightly clasps his head for a moment, then starts to pull her hands from his forehead back to his ears]. Thank you. [Drowsily]. That feels really nice. [Waking up a bit]. But don’t hypnotize me, okay? I’ve seen guys made fools by hypnosis.

ELLIE [steadily]. Be quiet. I've seen men made fools of without hypnotism.

ELLIE [steadily]. Be quiet. I've seen men make fools of themselves without any hypnotism.

MANGAN [humbly]. You don't dislike touching me, I hope. You never touched me before, I noticed.

MANGAN [humbly]. I hope you don't mind touching me. I noticed you've never touched me before.

ELLIE. Not since you fell in love naturally with a grown-up nice woman, who will never expect you to make love to her. And I will never expect him to make love to me.

ELLIE. Not since you naturally fell in love with a real, nice woman, who will never expect you to sleep with her. And I will never expect him to sleep with me.

MANGAN. He may, though.

MANGAN. He might, though.

ELLIE [making her passes rhythmically]. Hush. Go to sleep. Do you hear? You are to go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep; be quiet, deeply deeply quiet; sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep.

ELLIE [making her passes rhythmically]. Hush. Go to sleep. Do you hear? You need to go 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 the light out; and goes into the garden.

He falls asleep. Ellie quietly slips away, turns off the light, and heads into the garden.

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

Nurse Guinness opens the door and is visible in the light coming in from the hallway.

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

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

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

MRS HUSHABYE [offstage]. Check the garden. Mr. Dunn and I will be in my bedroom. Please show him the way.

GUINNESS. Yes, ducky. [She makes for the garden door in the dark; stumbles over the sleeping Mangan and screams]. Ahoo! O Lord, Sir! I beg your pardon, I'm sure: I didn't see you in the dark. Who is it? [She goes back to the door and turns on the light]. Oh, Mr Mangan, sir, I hope I haven't hurt you plumping into your lap like that. [Coming to him]. I was looking for you, sir. Mrs Hushabye says will you please [noticing that he remains quite insensible]. Oh, my good Lord, I hope I haven't killed him. Sir! Mr Mangan! Sir! [She shakes him; and he is rolling inertly off the chair on the floor when she holds him up and props him against the cushion]. Miss Hessy! Miss Hessy! quick, doty darling. Miss Hessy! [Mrs Hushabye comes in from the hall, followed by Mazzini Dunn]. Oh, Miss Hessy, I've been and killed him.

GUINNESS. Yes, dear. [She heads for the garden door in the dark; stumbles over the sleeping Mangan and screams]. Oh no! Oh my goodness, sir! I'm so sorry: I didn't see you there in the dark. Who is it? [She returns to the door and turns on the light]. Oh, Mr. Mangan, sir, I hope I didn't hurt you by landing on your lap like that. [Approaching him]. I was looking for you, sir. Mrs. Hushabye wants to know if you’ll please [noticing he remains unresponsive]. Oh no, I really hope I haven't hurt him. Sir! Mr. Mangan! Sir! [She shakes him; and he starts rolling off the chair onto the floor when she holds him up and props him against the cushion]. Miss Hessy! Miss Hessy! hurry up, darling. Miss Hessy! [Mrs. Hushabye comes in from the hall, followed by Mazzini Dunn]. Oh, Miss Hessy, I think I’ve really hurt him.

Mazzini runs round the back of the chair to Mangan's right hand, and sees that the nurse's words are apparently only too true.

Mazzini rushes around to the back of the chair on Mangan's right side and realizes that the nurse's words are clearly all too accurate.

MAZZINI. What tempted you to commit such a crime, woman?

MAZZINI. What made you decide to commit such a crime, woman?

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

MRS HUSHABYE [trying not to laugh]. Are you saying you did that on purpose?

GUINNESS. Now is it likely I'd kill any man on purpose? I fell over him in the dark; and I'm a pretty tidy weight. He never spoke nor moved until I shook him; and then he would have dropped dead on the floor. Isn't it tiresome?

GUINNESS. Do you really think I would intentionally kill any man? I tripped over him in the dark, and I'm not light. He didn't say a word or move until I shook him; then he almost collapsed right there. Isn't it annoying?

MRS HUSHABYE [going past the nurse to Mangan's side, and inspecting him less credulously than Mazzini]. Nonsense! he is not dead: he is only asleep. I can see him breathing.

MRS HUSHABYE [walking past the nurse to Mangan's side and looking at him with less belief than Mazzini]. Nonsense! He’s not dead; he’s just sleeping. I can see him breathing.

GUINNESS. But why won't he wake?

GUINNESS. But why won't he wake up?

MAZZINI [speaking very politely into Mangan's ear]. Mangan! My dear Mangan! [he blows into Mangan's ear].

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

MRS HUSHABYE. That's not right [she shakes him vigorously]. Mr. Mangan, wake up. Do you hear me? [He starts to roll over]. Oh! Nurse, nurse: he's falling: help me.

Nurse Guinness rushes to the rescue. With Mazzini's assistance, Mangan is propped safely up again.

Nurse Guinness rushes to help. With Mazzini's support, Mangan is safely propped up again.

GUINNESS [behind the chair; bending over to test the case with her nose]. Would he be drunk, do you think, pet?

GUINNESS [behind the chair; leaning over to check the case with her nose]. Do you think he would be drunk, sweetheart?

MRS HUSHABYE. Had he any of papa's rum?

MRS HUSHABYE. Did he have any of Dad's rum?

MAZZINI. It can't be that: he is most abstemious. I am afraid he drank too much formerly, and has to drink too little now. You know, Mrs Hushabye, I really think he has been hypnotized.

MAZZINI. It can’t be that; he’s really self-controlled. I’m worried he used to drink too much and now has to drink too little. You know, Mrs. Hushabye, I honestly think he’s been hypnotized.

GUINNESS. Hip no what, sir?

GUINNESS. Hip to what, sir?

MAZZINI. One evening at home, after we had seen a hypnotizing performance, the children began playing at it; and Ellie stroked my head. I assure you I went off dead asleep; and they had to send for a professional to wake me up after I had slept eighteen hours. They had to carry me upstairs; and as the poor children were not very strong, they let me slip; and I rolled right down the whole flight and never woke up. [Mrs Hushabye splutters]. Oh, you may laugh, Mrs Hushabye; but I might have been killed.

MAZZINI. One evening at home, after we watched an amazing hypnotism act, the kids started to play at it; and Ellie brushed my hair. I swear I fell into a deep sleep, and they had to call in a professional to wake me up after I had slept for eighteen hours. They had to carry me upstairs, and since the poor kids weren’t very strong, they ended up dropping me; and I tumbled all the way down the stairs without waking up. [Mrs Hushabye splutters]. Oh, you can laugh, Mrs Hushabye; but I could have been seriously hurt.

MRS HUSHABYE. I couldn't have helped laughing even if you had been, Mr Dunn. So Ellie has hypnotized him. What fun!

MRS HUSHABYE. I couldn't help laughing even if you had been, Mr. Dunn. So Ellie has hypnotized him. How fun!

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. It was such a terrible lesson to her: nothing would induce her to try such a thing again.

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. It was such a terrible lesson for her: nothing would convince her to try something like that again.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then who did it? I didn't.

MRS HUSHABYE. So, who did it? I didn't.

MAZZINI. I thought perhaps the captain might have done it unintentionally. He is so fearfully magnetic: I feel vibrations whenever he comes close to me.

MAZZINI. I thought maybe the captain did it by accident. He's incredibly magnetic: I feel a buzz whenever he gets near me.

GUINNESS. The captain will get him out of it anyhow, sir: I'll back him for that. I'll go fetch him [she makes for the pantry].

GUINNESS. The captain will sort it out one way or another, sir: I'm sure of that. I'll go get him [she heads for the pantry].

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Just a moment. [To Mazzini]. You say he’ll be fine for eighteen hours?

MAZZINI. Well, I was asleep for eighteen hours.

MAZZINI. Well, I slept for eighteen hours.

MRS HUSHABYE. Were you any the worse for it?

MRS HUSHABYE. Did it affect you negatively?

MAZZINI. I don't quite remember. They had poured brandy down my throat, you see; and—

MAZZINI. I don't really remember. They had poured brandy down my throat, you see; and—

MRS HUSHABYE. Quite. Anyhow, you survived. Nurse, darling: go and ask Miss Dunn to come to us here. Say I want to speak to her particularly. You will find her with Mr Hushabye probably.

MRS HUSHABYE. Exactly. Either way, you made it through. Nurse, sweetie: please go and ask Miss Dunn to come here. Tell her I need to talk to her specifically. You'll probably find her with Mr. Hushabye.

GUINNESS. I think not, ducky: Miss Addy is with him. But I'll find her and send her to you. [She goes out into the garden].

GUINNESS. I don't think so, sweetheart: Miss Addy is with him. But I'll go find her and bring her to you. [She goes out into the garden].

MRS HUSHABYE [calling Mazzini's attention to the figure on the chair]. Now, Mr Dunn, look. Just look. Look hard. Do you still intend to sacrifice your daughter to that thing?

MRS HUSHABYE [calling Mazzini's attention to the figure on the chair]. Now, Mr. Dunn, take a look. Really look. Do you still plan to sacrifice your daughter to that thing?

MAZZINI [troubled]. You have completely upset me, Mrs Hushabye, by all you have said to me. That anyone could imagine that I—I, a consecrated soldier of freedom, if I may say so—could sacrifice Ellie to anybody or anyone, or that I should ever have dreamed of forcing her inclinations in any way, is a most painful blow to my—well, I suppose you would say to my good opinion of myself.

MAZZINI [troubled]. You’ve really thrown me off, Mrs. Hushabye, with everything you’ve said. The idea that anyone could think that I—I, a dedicated soldier for freedom, if I may say so—would sacrifice Ellie for anyone, or that I would ever even consider pushing her to do something against her will, is a very painful hit to my—well, I guess you’d call it my self-esteem.

MRS HUSHABYE [rather stolidly]. Sorry.

MRS HUSHABYE [rather stiffly]. Sorry.

MAZZINI [looking forlornly at the body]. What is your objection to poor Mangan, Mrs Hushabye? He looks all right to me. But then I am so accustomed to him.

MAZZINI [looking sadly at the body]. What's wrong with poor Mangan, Mrs. Hushabye? He seems fine to me. But then I'm so used to him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Have you no heart? Have you no sense? Look at the brute! Think of poor weak innocent Ellie in the clutches of this slavedriver, who spends his life making thousands of rough violent workmen bend to his will and sweat for him: a man accustomed to have great masses of iron beaten into shape for him by steam-hammers! to fight with women and girls over a halfpenny an hour ruthlessly! a captain of industry, I think you call him, don't you? Are you going to fling your delicate, sweet, helpless child into such a beast's claws just because he will keep her in an expensive house and make her wear diamonds to show how rich he is?

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you have no heart? Do you have no common sense? Look at this brute! Think about poor, weak, innocent Ellie trapped by this tyrant, who spends his life making thousands of rough, violent workers bend to his will and labor for him: a man used to having huge amounts of iron shaped for him by steam hammers! He fights with women and girls over a few cents an hour without mercy! You call him a captain of industry, right? Are you really going to throw your delicate, sweet, helpless daughter into the hands of such a monster just because he’ll keep her in an expensive house and make her wear diamonds to flaunt his wealth?

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

MAZZINI [staring at her in wide-eyed amazement]. Wow, dear Mrs. Hushabye, you have such romantic ideas about business! Poor Mangan isn’t anything like that.

MRS HUSHABYE [scornfully]. Poor dear Mangan indeed!

MRS HUSHABYE [sarcastically]. Poor little Mangan, really!

MAZZINI. But he doesn't know anything about 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 interest in the works: he hardly knows more about them than you do. People are cruelly unjust to Mangan: they think he is all rugged strength just because his manners are bad.

MAZZINI. But he doesn't know anything about machinery. He never interacts with the workers; he couldn't handle them; he's afraid of them. I can never get him to show even the slightest interest in the operations; he knows hardly any more about them than you do. People are really unfair to Mangan; they assume he’s just all tough and strong because of his rough manners.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you mean to tell me he isn't strong enough to crush poor little Ellie?

MRS HUSHABYE. Are you really saying he isn't strong enough to crush poor little Ellie?

MAZZINI. Of course it's very hard to say how any marriage will turn out; but speaking for myself, I should say that he won't have a dog's chance against Ellie. You know, Ellie has remarkable strength of character. I think it is because I taught her to like Shakespeare when she was very young.

MAZZINI. Of course, it’s really hard to predict how any marriage will go; but speaking for myself, I’d say he doesn’t stand a chance against Ellie. You know, Ellie has an incredible strength of character. I think it’s because I taught her to appreciate Shakespeare when she was very young.

MRS HUSHABYE [contemptuously]. Shakespeare! The next thing you will tell me is that you could have made a great deal more money than Mangan. [She retires to the sofa, and sits down at the port end of it in the worst of humors].

MRS HUSHABYE [with disdain]. Shakespeare! The next thing you'll say is that you could have earned a lot more money than Mangan. [She moves to the sofa and sits down at the port end of it in a really bad mood].

MAZZINI [following her and taking the other end]. No: I'm no good at making money. I don't care enough for it, somehow. I'm not ambitious! that must be it. Mangan is wonderful about money: he thinks of nothing else. He is so dreadfully afraid of being poor. I am always thinking of other things: even at the works I think of the things we are doing and not of what they cost. And the worst of it is, poor Mangan doesn't know what to do with his money when he gets it. He is such a baby that he doesn't know even what to eat and drink: he has ruined his liver eating and drinking the wrong things; and now he can hardly eat at all. Ellie will diet him splendidly. You will be surprised when you come to know him better: he is really the most helpless of mortals. You get quite a protective feeling towards him.

MAZZINI [following her and taking the other end]. No, I'm not good at making money. I just don't care about it that much. I guess I’m not ambitious! That must be it. Mangan is amazing with money; it’s all he thinks about. He’s so terrified of being poor. I’m always focused on other things: even at work, I think about what we’re doing, not about the costs. The worst part is, poor Mangan doesn’t even know what to do with his money when he gets it. He’s so naive that he doesn’t even know what food or drink to choose; he’s messed up his liver eating and drinking the wrong things, and now he can hardly eat at all. Ellie will put him on a great diet. You’ll be surprised when you get to know him better; he really is the most helpless person. You develop a protective instinct towards him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Then who manages his business, pray?

MRS HUSHABYE. So, who runs his business, then?

MAZZINI. I do. And of course other people like me.

MAZZINI. I do. And of course others like me.

MRS HUSHABYE. Footling people, you mean.

MRS HUSHABYE. You mean people who are insignificant.

MAZZINI. I suppose you'd think us so.

MAZZINI. I guess you'd think that about us.

MRS HUSHABYE. And pray why don't you do without him if you're all so much cleverer?

MRS HUSHABYE. And why don’t you just manage without him if you’re all so much smarter?

MAZZINI. Oh, we couldn't: we should ruin the business in a year. I've tried; and I know. We should spend too much on everything. We should improve the quality of the goods and make them too dear. We should be sentimental about the hard cases among the work people. But Mangan keeps us in order. He is down on us about every extra halfpenny. We could never do without him. You see, he will sit up all night thinking of how to save sixpence. Won't Ellie make him jump, though, when she takes his house in hand!

MAZZINI. Oh, we couldn't do that: we'd ruin the business in a year. I've tried, and I know. We'd end up spending way too much on everything. We'd improve the quality of the products and make them too expensive. We'd get emotional about the tough situations the workers are in. But Mangan keeps us in check. He gets on our case about every extra penny. We could never manage without him. You know he’ll stay up all night figuring out how to save a couple of cents. Just wait until Ellie takes charge of his house; she's going to surprise him!

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

MRS HUSHABYE. So the guy is a fake even as a business leader!

MAZZINI. I am afraid all the captains of industry are what you call frauds, Mrs Hushabye. Of course there are some manufacturers who really do understand their own works; but they don't make as high a rate of profit as Mangan does. I assure you Mangan is quite a good fellow in his way. He means well.

MAZZINI. I'm afraid all the business leaders are what you call frauds, Mrs. Hushabye. Sure, there are some manufacturers who actually know their own businesses; but they don't earn as much profit as Mangan does. I assure you Mangan is a decent guy in his own way. He has good intentions.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. He doesn’t look good. He’s not in his prime anymore, is he?

MAZZINI. After all, no husband is in his first youth for very long, Mrs Hushabye. And men can't afford to marry in their first youth nowadays.

MAZZINI. After all, no husband stays young for long, Mrs. Hushabye. And men can't afford to get married in their youthful years these days.

MRS HUSHABYE. Now if I said that, it would sound witty. Why can't you say it wittily? What on earth is the matter with you? Why don't you inspire everybody with confidence? with respect?

MRS HUSHABYE. If I said that, it would come off as clever. Why can’t you say it in a clever way? What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you inspire everyone with confidence? With respect?

MAZZINI [humbly]. I think that what is the matter with me is that I am poor. You don't know what that means at home. Mind: I don't say they have ever complained. They've all been wonderful: they've been proud of my poverty. They've even joked about it quite often. But my wife has had a very poor time of it. She has been quite resigned—

MAZZINI [humbly]. I think what’s bothering me is that I’m struggling financially. You can’t imagine what that’s like at home. Just to be clear, I’m not saying they’ve ever complained. They’ve all been amazing; they’ve taken pride in my struggles. They’ve even laughed about it quite a bit. But my wife has had a really tough time. She has been very accepting—

MRS HUSHABYE [shuddering involuntarily!]

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

MAZZINI. There! You see, Mrs. Hushabye. I don't want Ellie to just settle for resignation.

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you want her to have to resign herself to living with a man she doesn't love?

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you want her to have to settle for living with a guy she doesn't love?

MAZZINI [wistfully]. Are you sure that would be worse than living with a man she did love, if he was a footling person?

MAZZINI [wistfully]. Are you sure that would be worse than living with a man she actually loved, even if he was a foolish person?

MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her contemptuous attitude, quite interested in Mazzini now]. You know, I really think you must love Ellie very much; for you become quite clever when you talk about her.

MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her contemptuous attitude, now quite interested in Mazzini]. You know, I really think you must love Ellie a lot; because you get really insightful when you talk about her.

MAZZINI. I didn't know I was so very stupid on other subjects.

MAZZINI. I didn't realize I was so clueless about other topics.

MRS HUSHABYE. You are, sometimes.

MRS HUSHABYE. You are, at times.

MAZZINI [turning his head away; for his eyes are wet]. I have learnt a good deal about myself from you, Mrs Hushabye; and I'm afraid I shall not be the happier for your plain speaking. But if you thought I needed it to make me think of Ellie's happiness you were very much mistaken.

MAZZINI [turning his head away; for his eyes are wet]. I’ve learned a lot about myself from you, Mrs. Hushabye, and I’m afraid your bluntness won’t make me any happier. But if you thought I needed that to consider Ellie’s happiness, you were very wrong.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [leaning towards him kindly]. Have I been awful?

MAZZINI [pulling himself together]. It doesn't matter about me, Mrs Hushabye. I think you like Ellie; and that is enough for me.

MAZZINI [regaining his composure]. It’s not about me, Mrs. Hushabye. I believe you care for Ellie; and that’s enough for me.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. I'm starting to like you a bit. I really couldn't stand you at first. I thought you were the most annoying, self-satisfied, boring old snob I had ever met.

MAZZINI [resigned, and now quite cheerful]. I daresay I am all that. I never have been a favorite with gorgeous women like you. They always frighten me.

MAZZINI [resigned, and now quite cheerful]. I suppose that's true. I've never really been popular with stunning women like you. They always make me nervous.

MRS HUSHABYE [pleased]. Am I a gorgeous woman, Mazzini? I shall fall in love with you presently.

MRS HUSHABYE [pleased]. Am I a stunning woman, Mazzini? I'm going to fall for you soon.

MAZZINI [with placid gallantry]. No, you won't, Hesione. But you would be quite safe. Would you believe it that quite a lot of women have flirted with me because I am quite safe? But they get tired of me for the same reason.

MAZZINI [with calm charm]. No, you won't, Hesione. But you would be totally safe. Can you believe that many women have flirted with me because I'm so safe? But they eventually lose interest for the same reason.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [mischievously]. Be careful. You might not be as safe as you think.

MAZZINI. Oh yes, quite safe. You see, I have been in love really: the sort of love that only happens once. [Softly]. That's why Ellie is such a lovely girl.

MAZZINI. Oh yes, totally safe. You see, I have really been in love: the kind of love that only happens once. [Softly]. That’s why Ellie is such a wonderful girl.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, really, you are coming out. Are you quite sure you won't let me tempt you into a second grand passion?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, honestly, you're actually stepping out. Are you really sure you won't let me persuade you into a second great love?

MAZZINI. Quite. It wouldn't be natural. The fact is, you don't strike on my box, Mrs Hushabye; and I certainly don't strike on yours.

MAZZINI. Exactly. That wouldn't feel right. The truth is, you don't hit on my territory, Mrs. Hushabye; and I definitely don't hit on yours.

MRS HUSHABYE. I see. Your marriage was a safety match.

MRS HUSHABYE. I get it. Your marriage was like a safety match.

MAZZINI. What a very witty application of the expression I used! I should never have thought of it.

MAZZINI. What a clever way to use the phrase I mentioned! I never would have thought of that.

Ellie comes in from the garden, looking anything but happy.

Ellie comes in from the garden, looking anything but cheerful.

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

MRS HUSHABYE [standing up]. Oh! Ellie is finally here. [She moves behind the sofa].

ELLIE [on the threshold of the starboard door]. Guinness said you wanted me: you and papa.

ELLIE [at the starboard door]. Guinness said you wanted to see me: you and Dad.

MRS HUSHABYE. You have kept us waiting so long that it almost came to—well, never mind. Your father is a very wonderful man [she ruffles his hair affectionately]: the only one I ever met who could resist me when I made myself really agreeable. [She comes to the big chair, on Mangan's left]. Come here. I have something to show you. [Ellie strolls listlessly to the other side of the chair]. Look.

MRS HUSHABYE. You made us wait so long that it almost turned into—well, never mind. Your dad is an amazing guy [she playfully ruffles his hair]: the only one I've ever met who could say no to me when I was actually trying to be nice. [She approaches the big chair, to Mangan's left]. Come here. I have something to show you. [Ellie walks over absentmindedly to the other side of the chair]. Look.

ELLIE [contemplating Mangan without interest]. I know. He is only asleep. We had a talk after dinner; and he fell asleep in the middle of it.

ELLIE [thinking about Mangan with no interest]. I know. He’s just asleep. We talked after dinner, and he dozed off in the middle of it.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. You did it, Ellie. You got him to sleep.

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

MAZZINI [getting up quickly and moving to the back 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.

MAZZINI. But it's risky. You know what happened to me.

ELLIE [utterly indifferent]. Oh, I daresay I can wake him. If not, somebody else can.

ELLIE [totally indifferent]. Oh, I'm sure I can wake him up. If not, someone else can.

MRS HUSHABYE. It doesn't matter, anyhow, because I have at last persuaded your father that you don't want to marry him.

MRS HUSHABYE. It doesn't matter anyway because I've finally convinced your dad that you don't want to marry him.

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

ELLIE [suddenly snapping out of her blah mood, clearly irritated]. But why did you do that, Hesione? I really want to marry him. I absolutely plan to marry him.

MAZZINI. Are you quite sure, Ellie? Mrs Hushabye has made me feel that I may have been thoughtless and selfish about it.

MAZZINI. Are you absolutely sure, Ellie? Mrs. Hushabye has made me feel like I might have been inconsiderate and self-centered about it.

ELLIE [very clearly and steadily]. Papa. When Mrs. Hushabye takes it on herself to explain to you what I think or don't think, shut your ears tight; and shut your eyes too. Hesione knows nothing about me: she hasn't the least notion of the sort of person I am, and never will. I promise you I won't do anything I don't want to do and mean to do for my own sake.

ELLIE [very clearly and steadily]. Dad. When Mrs. Hushabye decides to tell you what I think or don't think, just tune her out; and close your eyes too. Hesione knows nothing about me: she has no idea what kind of person I am, and she never will. I promise you I won't do anything I don't want to do and that I don't believe in for my own sake.

MAZZINI. You are quite, quite sure?

MAZZINI: Are you really sure?

ELLIE. Quite, quite sure. Now you must go away and leave me to talk to Mrs Hushabye.

ELLIE. Absolutely sure. Now you need to go and let me speak with Mrs. Hushabye.

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

MAZZINI. But I’d like to listen. Will I be in the way?

ELLIE [inexorable]. I had rather talk to her alone.

ELLIE [determined]. I'd prefer to talk to her alone.

MAZZINI [affectionately]. Oh, well, I know what a nuisance parents are, dear. I will be good and go. [He goes to the garden door]. By the way, do you remember the address of that professional who woke me up? Don't you think I had better telegraph to him?

MAZZINI [affectionately]. Oh, I know how annoying parents can be, dear. I'll behave and head out. [He goes to the garden door]. By the way, do you remember the address of that professional who woke me up? Don’t you think I should just telegraph him?

MRS HUSHABYE [moving towards the sofa]. It's too late to telegraph tonight.

MRS HUSHABYE [moving towards the sofa]. It's too late to send a telegram tonight.

MAZZINI. I suppose so. I do hope he'll wake up in the course of the night. [He goes out into the garden].

MAZZINI. I guess so. I really hope he wakes up during the night. [He goes out into the garden].

ELLIE [turning vigorously on Hesione the moment her father is out of the room]. Hesione, what the devil do you mean by making mischief with my father about Mangan?

ELLIE [turning sharply to Hesione as soon as her father leaves the room]. Hesione, what on earth do you mean by stirring up trouble with my dad about Mangan?

MRS HUSHABYE [promptly losing her temper]. Don't you dare speak to me like that, you little minx. Remember that you are in my house.

MRS HUSHABYE [quickly losing her temper]. Don’t you dare talk to me like that, you little troublemaker. Remember, you’re in my house.

ELLIE. Stuff! Why don't you mind your own business? What is it to you whether I choose to marry Mangan or not?

ELLIE. Seriously! Why don't you just mind your own business? What does it matter to you whether I decide to marry Mangan or not?

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you suppose you can bully me, you miserable little matrimonial adventurer?

MRS HUSHABYE. Do you really think you can intimidate me, you pathetic little marriage seeker?

ELLIE. Every woman who hasn't any money is a matrimonial adventurer. It's easy for you to talk: you have never known what it is to want money; and you can pick up men as if they were daisies. I am poor and respectable—

ELLIE. Every woman who doesn't have any money is looking for a husband. It's easy for you to say that; you've never experienced wanting money, and you can attract men as if they were just flowers. I am poor and respectable—

MRS HUSHABYE [interrupting]. Ho! respectable! How did you pick up Mangan? How did you pick up my husband? You have the audacity to tell me that I am a—a—a—

MRS HUSHABYE [interrupting]. Oh! Really! How did you meet Mangan? How did you end up with my husband? You have the nerve to say that I am a—a—a—

ELLIE. A siren. So you are. You were born to lead men by the nose: if you weren't, Marcus would have waited for me, perhaps.

ELLIE. A siren. That's exactly what you are. You were made to lead men around: if you weren't, Marcus might have waited for me, maybe.

MRS HUSHABYE [suddenly melting and half laughing]. Oh, my poor Ellie, my pettikins, my unhappy darling! I am so sorry about Hector. But what can I do? It's not my fault: I'd give him to you if I could.

MRS HUSHABYE [suddenly melting and half laughing]. Oh, my poor Ellie, my sweetie, my unhappy darling! I’m so sorry about Hector. But what can I do? It’s not my fault: I’d give him to you if I could.

ELLIE. I don't blame you for that.

ELLIE. I don't hold that against you.

MRS HUSHABYE. What a brute I was to quarrel with you and call you names! Do kiss me and say you're not angry with me.

MRS HUSHABYE. I can’t believe I was so mean to fight with you and insult you! Please kiss me and tell me you’re not mad at me.

ELLIE [fiercely]. Oh, don't slop and gush and be sentimental. Don't you see that unless I can be hard—as hard as nails—I shall go mad? I don't care a damn about your calling me names: do you think a woman in my situation can feel a few hard words?

ELLIE [fiercely]. Oh, don't whine and get all sentimental. Can't you see that unless I can be tough—tough as nails—I’m going to lose it? I don’t care at all about you calling me names: do you really think a woman in my position can be affected by a few harsh words?

MRS HUSHABYE. Poor little woman! Poor little situation!

MRS HUSHABYE. Poor woman! Poor situation!

ELLIE. I suppose you think you're being sympathetic. You are just foolish and stupid and selfish. You see me getting a smasher right in the face that kills a whole part of my life: the best part that can never come again; and you think you can help me over it by a little coaxing and kissing. When I want all the strength I can get to lean on: something iron, something stony, I don't care how cruel it is, you go all mushy and want to slobber over 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 velvet and always have been, women who are in hell can take it as easily as you.

ELLIE. I guess you think you’re being understanding. You’re just being foolish, stupid, and selfish. You see me getting hit hard in the face, losing a huge part of my life—the best part that will never come back; and you think you can help me through it with a bit of comforting and kissing. When what I really need is all the strength I can get to lean on: something tough, something solid. I don’t care how harsh it is; you go all soft and want to fawn over me. I’m not angry; I’m not unfriendly; but for God’s sake, get it together; and don’t assume that just because you’ve always had it easy, women who are suffering can handle it just as well as you.

MRS HUSHABYE [shrugging her shoulders]. Very well. [She sits down on the sofa in her old place.] But I warn you that when I am neither coaxing and kissing nor laughing, I am just wondering how much longer I can stand living in this cruel, damnable world. You object to the siren: well, I drop the siren. You want to rest your wounded bosom against a grindstone. Well [folding her arms] here is the grindstone.

MRS HUSHABYE [shrugging her shoulders]. Alright. [She sits down on the sofa in her usual spot.] But I warn you that when I’m not being sweet or playful, I’m just thinking about how much longer I can put up with living in this harsh, miserable world. You don’t like the siren: fine, I’ll drop the siren. You want to rest your hurt heart against a grindstone. Well [folding her arms] here’s the grindstone.

ELLIE [sitting down beside her, appeased]. That's better: you really have the trick of falling in with everyone's mood; but you don't understand, because you are not the sort of woman for whom there is only one man and only one chance.

ELLIE [sitting down beside her, relaxed]. That's better: you really have a talent for matching everyone’s mood; but you don’t get it, because you’re not the type of woman who believes there’s only one man and only one opportunity.

MRS HUSHABYE. I certainly don't understand how your marrying that object [indicating Mangan] will console you for not being able to marry Hector.

MRS HUSHABYE. I really don't get how marrying that guy [pointing to Mangan] will make you feel better about not being able to marry Hector.

ELLIE. Perhaps you don't understand why I was quite a nice girl this morning, and am now neither a girl nor particularly nice.

ELLIE. Maybe you don't get why I was such a nice girl this morning, and now I'm neither really a girl nor all that nice.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, yes, I do. It's because you have made up your mind to do something despicable and wicked.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, yes, I do. It's because you've decided to do something terrible and evil.

ELLIE. I don't think so, Hesione. I must make the best of my ruined house.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. Pooh! You'll get over it. Your house isn't ruined.

MRS HUSHABYE. Come on! You'll bounce back. Your house is fine.

ELLIE. Of course I shall get over it. You don't suppose I'm going to sit down and die of a broken heart, I hope, or be an old maid living on a pittance from the Sick and Indigent Roomkeepers' Association. But my heart is broken, all the same. What I mean by that is that I know that what has happened to me with Marcus will not happen to me ever again. In the world for me there is Marcus and a lot of other men of whom one is just the same as another. Well, if I can't have love, that's no reason why I should have poverty. If Mangan has nothing else, he has money.

ELLIE. Of course I'll get over it. You don’t think I’m going to just sit around and die of a broken heart, do you? Or end up as an old maid living on a small allowance from the Sick and Indigent Roomkeepers' Association? But my heart is broken, that’s for sure. What I mean is, I know that what happened with Marcus won’t happen for me again. In my world, there’s Marcus and a bunch of other guys who are all the same. Well, if I can’t have love, that doesn’t mean I have to live in poverty. If Mangan has nothing else, he at least has money.

MRS HUSHABYE. And are there no YOUNG men with money?

MRS HUSHABYE. So, are there no young men with money?

ELLIE. Not within my reach. Besides, a young man would have the right to expect love from me, and would perhaps leave me when he found I could not give it to him. Rich young men can get rid of their wives, you know, pretty cheaply. But this object, as you call him, can expect nothing more from me than I am prepared to give him.

ELLIE. It's out of my reach. Plus, a young man would expect love from me, and he might leave when he realizes I can't give it to him. Rich young men can easily ditch their wives, you know. But this guy, as you call him, can expect nothing more from me than what I’m willing to offer.

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

MRS HUSHABYE. He’ll be your owner, just so you know. If he buys you, he’ll make sure the deal benefits him, not you. Ask your dad.

ELLIE [rising and strolling to the chair to contemplate their subject]. You need not trouble on that score, Hesione. I have more to give Boss Mangan than he has to give me: it is I who am buying him, and at a pretty good price too, I think. Women are better at that sort of bargain than men. I have taken the Boss's measure; and ten Boss Mangans shall not prevent me doing far more as I please as his wife than I have ever been able to do as a poor girl. [Stooping to the recumbent figure]. Shall they, Boss? I think not. [She passes on to the drawing-table, and leans against the end of it, facing the windows]. I shall not have to spend most of my time wondering how long my gloves will last, anyhow.

ELLIE [getting up and walking to the chair to think about the topic]. You don't need to worry about that, Hesione. I have more to offer Boss Mangan than he has to offer me: I'm the one buying him, and I think I'm getting a pretty good deal. Women are better at this kind of negotiation than men. I've assessed the Boss; and not even ten Boss Mangans will stop me from doing much more of what I want as his wife than I've ever been able to do as a poor girl. [Bending down to the reclining figure]. Will they, Boss? I don't think so. [She moves to the drawing table and leans against the end of it, facing the windows]. I won't have to spend most of my time worrying about how long my gloves will last, anyway.

MRS HUSHABYE [rising superbly]. Ellie, you are a wicked, sordid little beast. And to think that I actually condescended to fascinate that creature there to save you from him! Well, let me tell you this: if you make this disgusting match, you will never see Hector again if I can help it.

MRS HUSHABYE [standing tall]. Ellie, you are a wicked, nasty little piece of work. And to think I actually lowered myself to charm that guy over there to rescue you from him! Well, let me tell you this: if you go through with this horrible match, you will never see Hector again if I have anything to say about it.

ELLIE [unmoved]. I nailed Mangan by telling him that if he did not marry me he should never see you again [she lifts herself on her wrists and seats herself on the end of the table].

ELLIE [unmoved]. I got Mangan to agree by telling him that if he didn't marry me, he'd never see you again [she lifts herself on her wrists and seats herself on the end of the table].

MRS HUSHABYE [recoiling]. Oh!

ELLIE. So you see I am not unprepared for your playing that trump against me. Well, you just try it: that's all. I should have made a man of Marcus, not a household pet.

ELLIE. So you see I’m not caught off guard by your trick against me. Well, go ahead and try it; that’s all I’m saying. I should have turned Marcus into a man, not just a family pet.

MRS HUSHABYE [flaming]. You dare!

MRS HUSHABYE [flaming]. How dare you!

ELLIE [looking almost dangerous]. Set him thinking about me if you dare.

ELLIE [looking almost dangerous]. Go ahead and make him think about me if you want to.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, of all the impudent little fiends I ever met! Hector says there is a certain point at which the only answer you can give to a man who breaks all the rules is to knock him down. What would you say if I were to box your ears?

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, of all the cheeky little brats I've ever met! Hector says there's a certain point where the only response to a guy who disregards all the rules is to knock him out. What would you say if I were to slap you?

ELLIE [calmly]. I should pull your hair.

ELLIE [calmly]. I should really pull your hair.

MRS HUSHABYE [mischievously]. That wouldn't hurt me. Perhaps it comes off at night.

MRS HUSHABYE [playfully]. That wouldn't bother me. Maybe it comes off at night.

ELLIE [so taken aback that she drops off the table and runs to her]. Oh, you don't mean to say, Hesione, that your beautiful black hair is false?

ELLIE [so surprised that she jumps off the table and rushes to her]. Oh, you can't be saying, Hesione, that your stunning black hair isn't real?

MRS HUSHABYE [patting it]. Don't tell Hector. He believes in it.

MRS HUSHABYE [patting it]. Don’t tell Hector. He believes in it.

ELLIE [groaning]. Oh! Even the hair that ensnared him false! Everything false!

ELLIE [groaning]. Oh! Even the hair that trapped him is fake! Everything is fake!

MRS HUSHABYE. Pull it and try. Other women can snare men in their hair; but I can swing a baby on mine. Aha! you can't do that, Goldylocks.

MRS HUSHABYE. Give it a pull and see. Other women can catch men with their hair; but I can rock a baby with mine. Aha! You can't do that, Goldylocks.

ELLIE [heartbroken]. No. You have stolen my babies.

ELLIE [heartbroken]. No. You’ve taken my kids.

MRS HUSHABYE. Pettikins, don't make me cry. You know what you said about my making a household pet of him is a little true. Perhaps he ought to have waited for you. Would any other woman on earth forgive you?

MRS HUSHABYE. Pettikins, please don't make me cry. You know what you said about me treating him like a household pet is somewhat true. Maybe he should have waited for you. Would any other woman on earth let you off the hook?

ELLIE. Oh, what right had you to take him all for yourself! [Pulling herself together]. There! You couldn't help it: neither of us could help it. He couldn't help it. No, don't say anything more: I can't bear it. Let us wake the object. [She begins stroking Mangan's head, reversing the movement with which she put him to sleep]. Wake up, do you hear? You are to wake up at once. Wake up, wake up, wake—

ELLIE. Oh, what right did you have to take him all for yourself! [Pulling herself together]. There! You couldn’t help it: neither of us could help it. He couldn’t help it. No, don’t say anything more: I can’t stand it. Let’s wake the object. [She begins stroking Mangan's head, reversing the movement with which she put him to sleep]. Wake up, do you hear? You need to wake up right now. Wake up, wake up, wake—

MANGAN [bouncing out of the chair in a fury and turning on them]. Wake up! So you think I've been asleep, do you? [He kicks the chair violently back out of his way, and gets between them]. You throw me into a trance so that I can't move hand or foot—I might have been buried alive! it's a mercy I wasn't—and then you think I was only asleep. If you'd let me drop the two times you rolled me about, my nose would have been flattened for life against the floor. But I've found you all out, anyhow. I know the sort of people I'm among now. I've heard every word you've said, you and your precious father, and [to Mrs Hushabye] you too. So I'm an object, am I? I'm a thing, am I? I'm a fool that hasn't sense enough to feed myself properly, am I? I'm afraid of the men that would starve if it weren't for the wages I give them, am I? I'm nothing but a disgusting old skinflint to be made a convenience of by designing women and fool managers of my works, am I? I'm—

MANGAN [jumping out of the chair in anger and confronting them]. Wake up! So you think I've been asleep, huh? [He kicks the chair out of his way and stands between them]. You knocked me into a daze so that I couldn't move a muscle—I might as well have been buried alive! It's a blessing I wasn't—and then you think I was just napping. If you had let me fall the two times you tossed me around, my nose would have been smashed flat against the floor. But I've figured you all out, anyway. I know what kind of people I'm dealing with now. I've heard every word you've said, you and your precious father, and [to Mrs. Hushabye] you too. So I'm an object, am I? I'm a thing, am I? I'm a fool who can't even take care of myself properly, right? I'm scared of the men who would starve if it weren't for the wages I pay them, am I? I'm just a disgusting old miser to be used by manipulative women and clueless managers of my business, am I? I'm—

MRS HUSHABYE [with the most elegant aplomb]. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh! Mr Mangan, you are bound in honor to obliterate from your mind all you heard while you were pretending to be asleep. It was not meant for you to hear.

MRS HUSHABYE [with the most elegant aplomb]. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh! Mr. Mangan, you must promise to erase from your memory everything you heard while you were pretending to be asleep. You weren’t supposed to hear any of it.

MANGAN. Pretending to be asleep! Do you think if I was only pretending that I'd have sprawled there helpless, and listened to such unfairness, such lies, such injustice and plotting and backbiting and slandering of me, if I could have up and told you what I thought of you! I wonder I didn't burst.

MANGAN. Pretending to be asleep! Do you really think that if I was just pretending, I would have laid there helpless, listening to all that unfairness, those lies, that injustice, and all the plotting and gossiping about me, when I could have just stood up and told you exactly what I think of you? I’m surprised I didn’t lose it.

MRS HUSHABYE [sweetly]. You dreamt it all, Mr Mangan. We were only saying how beautifully peaceful you looked in your sleep. That was all, wasn't it, Ellie? Believe me, Mr Mangan, all those unpleasant things came into your mind in the last half second before you woke. Ellie rubbed your hair the wrong way; and the disagreeable sensation suggested a disagreeable dream.

MRS HUSHABYE [sweetly]. You imagined it all, Mr. Mangan. We were just saying how beautifully peaceful you looked while you were sleeping. That’s all, right, Ellie? Trust me, Mr. Mangan, all those unpleasant thoughts popped into your head in the last half second before you woke up. Ellie was messing with your hair, and that uncomfortable feeling led to an unpleasant dream.

MANGAN [doggedly]. I believe in dreams.

MANGAN [persistently]. I believe in dreams.

MRS HUSHABYE. So do I. But they go by contraries, don't they?

MRS HUSHABYE. Me too. But they go the opposite way, right?

MANGAN [depths of emotion suddenly welling up in him]. I shan't forget, to my dying day, that when you gave me the glad eye that time in the garden, you were making a fool of me. That was a dirty low mean thing to do. You had no right to let me come near you if I disgusted you. It isn't my fault if I'm old and haven't a moustache like a bronze candlestick as your husband has. There are things no decent woman would do to a man—like a man hitting a woman in the breast.

MANGAN [feelings suddenly overwhelming him]. I'll never forget, as long as I live, that when you gave me that flirtatious look in the garden, you were just messing with my head. That was a really low thing to do. You shouldn’t have let me get close if I made you feel sick. It's not my fault that I'm older and don’t have a mustache like a bronze candlestick, like your husband does. There are things no decent woman should do to a man—like a man hitting a woman in the chest.

Hesione, utterly shamed, sits down on the sofa and covers her face with her hands. Mangan sits down also on his chair and begins to cry like a child. Ellie stares at them. Mrs Hushabye, at the distressing sound he makes, takes down her hands and looks at him. She rises and runs to him.

Hesione, completely embarrassed, sits down on the sofa and covers her face with her hands. Mangan sits down in his chair and starts to cry like a child. Ellie stares at them. Mrs. Hushabye, disturbed by the sound he makes, lowers her hands and looks at him. She gets up and rushes to him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Don't cry: I can't bear it. Have I broken your heart? I didn't know you had one. How could I?

MRS HUSHABYE. Don't cry: I can't take it. Did I break your heart? I didn't know you had one. How could I?

MANGAN. I'm a man, ain't I?

MANGAN. I'm a guy, right?

MRS HUSHABYE [half coaxing, half rallying, altogether tenderly]. Oh no: not what I call a man. Only a Boss: just that and nothing else. What business has a Boss with a heart?

MRS HUSHABYE [half coaxing, half teasing, completely tender]. Oh no: not what I consider a man. Just a Boss: nothing more, nothing less. What does a Boss need with a heart?

MANGAN. Then you're not a bit sorry for what you did, nor ashamed?

MANGAN. So you don't feel even a little sorry for what you did, or embarrassed?

MRS HUSHABYE. I was ashamed for the first time in my life when you said that about hitting a woman in the breast, and I found out what I'd done. My very bones blushed red. You've had your revenge, Boss. Aren't you satisfied?

MRS HUSHABYE. I felt ashamed for the first time in my life when you talked about hitting a woman in the breast, and I realized what I had done. My whole body turned red. You've gotten your revenge, Boss. Are you happy now?

MANGAN. Serve you right! Do you hear? Serve you right! You're just cruel. Cruel.

MANGAN. You got what you deserved! Do you hear me? You got what you deserved! You're just being cruel. Cruel.

MRS HUSHABYE. Yes: cruelty would be delicious if one could only find some sort of cruelty that didn't really hurt. By the way [sitting down beside him on the arm of the chair], what's your name? It's not really Boss, is it?

MRS HUSHABYE. Yeah, cruelty would be great if you could find a way to do it that didn’t actually hurt anyone. By the way [sitting 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.

MANGAN [briefly]. Just so you know, my name's Alfred.

MRS HUSHABYE [springs up]. Alfred!! Ellie, he was christened after Tennyson!!!

MRS HUSHABYE [jumps up]. Alfred!! Ellie, he was named after Tennyson!!!

MANGAN [rising]. I was christened after my uncle, and never had a penny from him, damn him! What of it?

MANGAN [standing up]. I was named after my uncle, and I never got a single cent from him, damn him! So what?

MRS HUSHABYE. It comes to me suddenly that you are a real person: that you had a mother, like anyone else. [Putting her hands on his shoulders and surveying him]. Little Alf!

MRS HUSHABYE. It hits me all at once that you’re a real person: that you had a mom, just like everyone else. [Putting her hands on his shoulders and looking at him]. Little Alf!

MANGAN. Well, you have a nerve.

MANGAN. Wow, you've got some guts.

MRS HUSHABYE. And you have a heart, Alfy, a whimpering little heart, but a real one. [Releasing him suddenly]. Now run and make it up with Ellie. She has had time to think what to say to you, which is more than I had [she goes out quickly into the garden by the port door].

MRS HUSHABYE. And you do have a heart, Alfy, a whiny little heart, but a real one. [Suddenly letting him go]. Now go and patch things up with Ellie. She’s had time to figure out what to say to you, which is more than I did. [She quickly goes out into the garden through the back door].

MANGAN. That woman has a pair of hands that go right through you.

MANGAN. That woman has a pair of hands that can reach right into your soul.

ELLIE. Still in love with her, in spite of all we said about you?

ELLIE. Are you still in love with her, even after everything we've said about you?

MANGAN. Are all women like you two? Do they never think of anything about a man except what they can get out of him? You weren't even thinking that about me. You were only thinking whether your gloves would last.

MANGAN. Are all women like you two? Do they never think about a man except for what they can get from him? You weren't even thinking that about me. You were just wondering if your gloves would hold up.

ELLIE. I shall not have to think about that when we are married.

ELLIE. I won't have to think about that once we're married.

MANGAN. And you think I am going to marry you after what I heard there!

MANGAN. And you really think I would marry you after what I just heard?

ELLIE. You heard nothing from me that I did not tell you before.

ELLIE. You didn't hear anything from me that I haven't already told you.

MANGAN. Perhaps you think I can't do without you.

MANGAN. Maybe you think I can’t get by without you.

ELLIE. I think you would feel lonely without us all, now, after coming to know us so well.

ELLIE. I think you would feel lonely without us now, especially after getting to know us so well.

MANGAN [with something like a yell of despair]. Am I never to have the last word?

MANGAN [shouting in despair]. Will I never get the last word?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [appearing at the starboard garden door]. There is a soul in torment here. What is the matter?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [appearing at the starboard garden door]. There’s someone in anguish here. What’s going on?

MANGAN. This girl doesn't want to spend her life wondering how long her gloves will last.

MANGAN. This girl doesn’t want to spend her life wondering how long her gloves will hold up.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [passing through]. Don't wear any. I never do [he goes into the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [passing through]. Don't put any on. I never do [he goes into the pantry].

LADY UTTERWORD [appearing at the port garden door, in a handsome dinner dress]. Is anything the matter?

LADY UTTERWORD [appearing at the garden door, dressed elegantly for dinner]. Is something wrong?

ELLIE. This gentleman wants to know is he never to have the last word?

ELLIE. This guy wants to know if he's never going to get the last word?

LADY UTTERWORD [coming forward to the sofa]. I should let him have it, my dear. The important thing is not to have the last word, but to have your own way.

LADY UTTERWORD [coming forward to the sofa]. I should let him have it, my dear. The important thing isn’t to have the last word, but to get your way.

MANGAN. She wants both.

MANGAN. She wants it all.

LADY UTTERWORD. She won't get them, Mr Mangan. Providence always has the last word.

LADY UTTERWORD. She won’t get them, Mr. Mangan. Fate always has the final say.

MANGAN [desperately]. Now you are going to come religion over me. In this house a man's mind might as well be a football. I'm going. [He makes for the hall, but is stopped by a hail from the Captain, who has just emerged from his pantry].

MANGAN [desperately]. Now you're going to throw religion at me. In this house, a man's thoughts might as well be a football. I'm leaving. [He heads for the hall, but is stopped by a call from the Captain, who has just come out of his pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Whither away, Boss Mangan?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Where are you headed, Boss Mangan?

MANGAN. To hell out of this house: let that be enough for you and all here.

MANGAN. Get out of this house: that should be enough for you and everyone here.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You were welcome to come: you are free to go. The wide earth, the high seas, the spacious skies are waiting for you outside.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You were welcome to come here: you’re free to leave. The vast earth, the open seas, and the endless skies are waiting for you out there.

LADY UTTERWORD. But your things, Mr Mangan. Your bag, your comb and brushes, your pyjamas—

LADY UTTERWORD. But your stuff, Mr. Mangan. Your bag, your comb and brushes, your pajamas—

HECTOR [who has just appeared in the port doorway in a handsome Arab costume]. Why should the escaping slave take his chains with him?

HECTOR [who has just appeared in the port doorway in a stylish Arab outfit]. Why should the escaping slave bring his chains with him?

MANGAN. That's right, Hushabye. Keep the pyjamas, my lady, and much good may they do you.

MANGAN. That's right, Hushabye. Keep the pajamas, my lady, and I hope they serve you well.

HECTOR [advancing to Lady Utterword's left hand]. Let us all go out into the night and leave everything behind us.

HECTOR [moving to Lady Utterword's left side]. Let's all head out into the night and leave everything behind us.

MANGAN. You stay where you are, the lot of you. I want no company, especially female company.

MANGAN. You all stay where you are. I don't want any company, especially not from women.

ELLIE. Let him go. He is unhappy here. He is angry with us.

ELLIE. Let him go. He’s unhappy here. He’s angry with us.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go, Boss Mangan; and when you have found the land where there is happiness and where there are no women, send me its latitude and longitude; and I will join you there.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go, Boss Mangan; and when you find the land where happiness exists and where there are no women, send me its latitude and longitude; and I will meet you there.

LADY UTTERWORD. You will certainly not be comfortable without your luggage, Mr Mangan.

LADY UTTERWORD. You definitely won't feel at ease without your luggage, Mr. Mangan.

ELLIE [impatient]. Go, go: why don't you go? It is a heavenly night: you can sleep on the heath. Take my waterproof to lie on: it is hanging up in the hall.

ELLIE [impatient]. Go, go: why don't you leave? It's a beautiful night: you can sleep on the grass. Use my waterproof to lie on: it's hanging up in the hall.

HECTOR. Breakfast at nine, unless you prefer to breakfast with the captain at six.

HECTOR. Breakfast is at nine, unless you'd rather eat with the captain at six.

ELLIE. Good night, Alfred.

Good night, Alfred.

HECTOR. Alfred! [He runs back to the door and calls into the garden]. Randall, Mangan's Christian name is Alfred.

HECTOR. Alfred! [He runs back to the door and calls into the garden]. Randall, Mangan's first name is Alfred.

RANDALL [appearing in the starboard doorway in evening dress]. Then Hesione wins her bet.

RANDALL [appearing in the right doorway in formal attire]. Then Hesione wins her bet.

Mrs Hushabye appears in the port doorway. She throws her left arm round Hector's neck: draws him with her to the back of the sofa: and throws her right arm round Lady Utterword's neck.

Mrs. Hushabye appears in the doorway of the port. She wraps her left arm around Hector's neck, pulls him with her to the back of the sofa, and throws her right arm around Lady Utterword's neck.

MRS HUSHABYE. They wouldn't believe me, Alf.

MRS HUSHABYE. They wouldn’t believe me, Alf.

They contemplate him.

They think about him.

MANGAN. Is there any more of you coming in to look at me, as if I was the latest thing in a menagerie?

MANGAN. Are more of you coming in to gawk at me, like I'm the newest attraction at a zoo?

MRS HUSHABYE. You are the latest thing in this menagerie.

MRS HUSHABYE. You're the newest addition to this collection.

Before Mangan can retort, a fall of furniture is heard from upstairs: then a pistol shot, and a yell of pain. The staring group breaks up in consternation.

Before Mangan can respond, a crash of furniture is heard from upstairs: then a gunshot, followed by a scream of pain. The shocked group disperses in alarm.

MAZZINI'S VOICE [from above]. Help! A burglar! Help!

MAZZINI'S VOICE [from above]. Help! There's a burglar! Help!

HECTOR [his eyes blazing]. A burglar!!!

MRS HUSHABYE. No, Hector: you'll be shot [but it is too late; he has dashed out past Mangan, who hastily moves towards the bookshelves out of his way].

MRS HUSHABYE. No, Hector: you'll get shot [but it’s too late; he has rushed out past Mangan, who quickly steps aside towards the bookshelves].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [blowing his whistle]. All hands aloft! [He strides out after Hector].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [blowing his whistle]. Everyone on deck! [He walks out after Hector].

LADY UTTERWORD. My diamonds! [She follows the captain].

RANDALL [rushing after her]. No. Ariadne. Let me.

RANDALL [rushing after her]. No. Ariadne. Let me do it.

ELLIE. Oh, is papa shot? [She runs out].

ELLIE. Oh no, is Dad shot? [She runs out].

MRS HUSHABYE. Are you frightened, Alf?

MRS HUSHABYE. Are you scared, Alf?

MANGAN. No. It ain't my house, thank God.

MANGAN. No. It's not 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 our private lives?

MRS HUSHABYE. If they catch a burglar, will we have to go to court as witnesses and answer all kinds of questions about our personal lives?

MANGAN. You won't be believed if you tell the truth.

MANGAN. No one will believe you even if you tell the truth.

Mazzini, terribly upset, with a duelling pistol in his hand, comes from the hall, and makes his way to the drawing-table.

Mazzini, extremely upset, holding a dueling pistol in his hand, comes from the hall and heads to the drawing table.

MAZZINI. Oh, my dear Mrs Hushabye, I might have killed him. [He throws the pistol on the table and staggers round to the chair]. I hope you won't believe I really intended to.

MAZZINI. Oh, my dear Mrs. Hushabye, I could have killed him. [He throws the pistol on the table and staggers over to the chair]. I hope you won't think I actually meant to.

Hector comes in, marching an old and villainous looking man before him by the collar. He plants him in the middle of the room and releases him.

Hector comes in, dragging an old and sinister-looking man by the collar. He puts him in the center of the room and lets him go.

Ellie follows, and immediately runs across to the back of her father's chair and pats his shoulders.

Ellie follows and quickly runs to the back of her dad's chair and gives his shoulders a pat.

RANDALL [entering with a poker]. Keep your eye on this door, Mangan. I'll look after the other [he goes to the starboard door and stands on guard there].

RANDALL [entering with a poker]. Keep an eye on this door, Mangan. I'll watch the other one [he goes to the starboard door and stands guard there].

Lady Utterword comes in after Randall, and goes between Mrs Hushabye and Mangan.

Lady Utterword enters after Randall and sits down between Mrs. Hushabye and Mangan.

Nurse Guinness brings up the rear, and waits near the door, on Mangan's left.

Nurse Guinness stands at the back and waits by the door, to Mangan's left.

MRS HUSHABYE. What has happened?

MRS HUSHABYE. What happened?

MAZZINI. Your housekeeper told me there was somebody upstairs, and gave me a pistol that Mr Hushabye had been practising with. I thought it would frighten him; but it went off at a touch.

MAZZINI. Your housekeeper said there was someone upstairs and handed me a pistol that Mr. Hushabye had been practicing with. I thought it would scare him, but it went off with just a touch.

THE BURGLAR. Yes, and took the skin off my ear. Precious near took the top off my head. Why don't you have a proper revolver instead of a thing like that, that goes off if you as much as blow on it?

THE BURGLAR. Yeah, and ripped the skin off my ear. Almost took the top off my head. Why don't you get a real revolver instead of that thing that goes off if you so much as blow on it?

HECTOR. One of my duelling pistols. Sorry.

HECTOR. One of my duel pistols. Sorry.

MAZZINI. He put his hands up and said it was a fair cop.

MAZZINI. He raised his hands and said it was a fair arrest.

THE BURGLAR. So it was. Send for the police.

THE BURGLAR. It’s true. Call the police.

HECTOR. No, by thunder! It was not a fair cop. We were four to one.

HECTOR. No way! That was not a fair arrest. We were four against one.

MRS HUSHABYE. What will they do to him?

MRS HUSHABYE. What are they going to do to him?

THE BURGLAR. Ten years. Beginning with solitary. Ten years off my life. I shan't serve it all: I'm too old. It will see me out.

THE BURGLAR. Ten years. Starting with solitary. Ten years gone from my life. I won't serve all of it: I'm too old. It will take me out.

LADY UTTERWORD. You should have thought of that before you stole my diamonds.

LADY UTTERWORD. You should have considered that before you took my diamonds.

THE BURGLAR. Well, you've got them back, lady, haven't you? Can you give me back the years of my life you are going to take from me?

THE BURGLAR. Well, you got your stuff back, lady, didn’t you? Can you give me back the years of my life that you’re about to take from me?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, we can't bury a man alive for ten years for a few diamonds.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, we can’t lock a guy up for ten years over a few diamonds.

THE BURGLAR. Ten little shining diamonds! Ten long black years!

LADY UTTERWORD. Think of what it is for us to be dragged through the horrors of a criminal court, and have all our family affairs in the papers! If you were a native, and Hastings could order you a good beating and send you away, I shouldn't mind; but here in England there is no real protection for any respectable person.

LADY UTTERWORD. Just think about what it’s like for us to be put through the nightmare of a criminal trial and have all our family issues splashed across the newspapers! If you were from here and Hastings could just have you beaten up and sent away, I wouldn’t care; but here in England, there’s really no protection for any decent person.

THE BURGLAR. I'm too old to be giv a hiding, lady. Send for the police and have done with it. It's only just and right you should.

THE BURGLAR. I'm too old to be punished, ma'am. Call the police and get it over with. It's only fair and right that you do.

RANDALL [who has relaxed his vigilance on seeing the burglar so pacifically disposed, and comes forward swinging the poker between his fingers like a well folded umbrella]. It is neither just nor right that we should be put to a lot of inconvenience to gratify your moral enthusiasm, my friend. You had better get out, while you have the chance.

RANDALL [who has relaxed his guard, seeing the burglar so calmly settled, approaches while swinging the poker between his fingers like a well-folded umbrella]. It’s neither fair nor right that we should face a lot of inconvenience to satisfy your moral enthusiasm, my friend. You'd better leave while you still have the chance.

THE BURGLAR [inexorably]. No. I must work my sin off my conscience. This has come as a sort of call to me. Let me spend the rest of my life repenting in a cell. I shall have my reward above.

THE BURGLAR [inexorably]. No. I need to clear my conscience of this sin. It feels like a calling for me. Let me spend the rest of my life repenting in a cell. I’ll earn my reward in the afterlife.

MANGAN [exasperated]. The very burglars can't behave naturally in this house.

MANGAN [frustrated]. Even the burglars can't act normally in this house.

HECTOR. My good sir, you must work out your salvation at somebody else's expense. Nobody here is going to charge you.

HECTOR. My good sir, you need to figure out your salvation on someone else's dime. No one here is going to bill you.

THE BURGLAR. Oh, you won't charge me, won't you?

THE BURGLAR. Oh, you’re not going to charge me, right?

HECTOR. No. I'm sorry to be inhospitable; but will you kindly leave the house?

HECTOR. No. I'm sorry to be rude, but could you please leave the house?

THE BURGLAR. Right. I'll go to the police station and give myself up. [He turns resolutely to the door: but Hector stops him].

THE BURGLAR. Alright. I'll head to the police station and turn myself in. [He turns determinedly to the door: but Hector stops him].

HECTOR. { Oh, no. You mustn't do that.

HECTOR. { Oh, no. You can't do that.

RANDALL. [speaking together] { No no. Clear out man, can't you; and don't be a fool.

RANDALL. [speaking together] { No, no. Get lost, man, can’t you; and don’t be an idiot.

MRS. HUSHABYE { Don't be so silly. Can't you repent at home?

MRS. HUSHABYE { Don't be ridiculous. Can't you feel sorry for what you did at home?

LADY UTTERWORD. You will have to do as you are told.

LADY UTTERWORD. You will need to follow the instructions you’re given.

THE BURGLAR. It's compounding a felony, you know.

THE BURGLAR. It's making a situation worse, you know.

MRS HUSHABYE. This is utterly ridiculous. Are we to be forced to prosecute this man when we don't want to?

MRS HUSHABYE. This is completely ridiculous. Are we really being forced to go after this man when we don’t want to?

THE BURGLAR. Am I to be robbed of my salvation to save you the trouble of spending a day at the sessions? Is that justice? Is it right? Is it fair to me?

THE BURGLAR. Am I supposed to give up my salvation just to save you the hassle of spending a day in court? Is that justice? Is it right? Is it fair to me?

MAZZINI [rising and leaning across the table persuasively as if it were a pulpit desk or a shop counter]. Come, come! let me show you how you can turn your very crimes to account. Why not set up as a locksmith? You must know more about locks than most honest men?

MAZZINI [standing and leaning across the table in a persuasive manner as if it were a pulpit or a shop counter]. Come on! Let me show you how you can make the most of your so-called crimes. Why not start a locksmith business? You probably know more about locks than most honest people do.

THE BURGLAR. That's true, sir. But I couldn't set up as a locksmith under twenty pounds.

THE BURGLAR. That's true, sir. But I couldn't start as a locksmith for less than twenty pounds.

RANDALL. Well, you can easily steal twenty pounds. You will find it in the nearest bank.

RANDALL. Well, you could easily grab twenty pounds. You’ll find it in the nearest bank.

THE BURGLAR [horrified]. Oh, what a thing for a gentleman to put into the head of a poor criminal scrambling out of the bottomless pit as it were! Oh, shame on you, sir! Oh, God forgive you! [He throws himself into the big chair and covers his face as if in prayer].

THE BURGLAR [horrified]. Oh, what a thing for a gentleman to put into the head of a poor criminal struggling to escape from the depths! Oh, shame on you, sir! Oh, God forgive you! [He throws himself into the big chair and covers his face as if in prayer].

LADY UTTERWORD. Really, Randall!

LADY UTTERWORD. Seriously, Randall!

HECTOR. It seems to me that we shall have to take up a collection for this inopportunely contrite sinner.

HECTOR. I think we need to take up a collection for this annoyingly regretful sinner.

LADY UTTERWORD. But twenty pounds is ridiculous.

LADY UTTERWORD. But twenty pounds is absurd.

THE BURGLAR [looking up quickly]. I shall have to buy a lot of tools, lady.

THE BURGLAR [looking up quickly]. I'm going to need to buy a bunch of tools, ma'am.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense: you have your burgling kit.

LADY UTTERWORD. That's ridiculous: you have your break-in tools.

THE BURGLAR. What's a jimmy and a centrebit and an acetylene welding plant and a bunch of skeleton keys? I shall want a forge, and a smithy, and a shop, and fittings. I can't hardly do it for twenty.

THE BURGLAR. What's a jimmy, a centerbit, an acetylene welding setup, and a bunch of skeleton keys? I'll need a forge, a blacksmith, a workshop, and some equipment. I can hardly pull this off for twenty.

HECTOR. My worthy friend, we haven't got twenty pounds.

HECTOR. My good friend, we don't have twenty pounds.

THE BURGLAR [now master of the situation]. You can raise it among you, can't you?

THE BURGLAR [now in control]. You can take care of that among yourselves, right?

MRS HUSHABYE. Give him a sovereign, Hector, and get rid of him.

MRS HUSHABYE. Give him a gold coin, Hector, and send him away.

HECTOR [giving him a pound]. There! Off with you.

HECTOR [giving him a pound]. There! Go on now.

THE BURGLAR [rising and taking the money very ungratefully]. I won't promise nothing. You have more on you than a quid: all the lot of you, I mean.

THE BURGLAR [rising and taking the money very ungratefully]. I won’t promise anything. You all have more than a quid on you: I mean all of you.

LADY UTTERWORD [vigorously]. Oh, let us prosecute him and have done with it. I have a conscience too, I hope; and I do not feel at all sure that we have any right to let him go, especially if he is going to be greedy and impertinent.

LADY UTTERWORD [vigorously]. Oh, let's go after him and be done with it. I hope I have a conscience too; and I’m not at all sure we have the right to just let him walk away, especially if he’s going to be greedy and rude.

THE BURGLAR [quickly]. All right, lady, all right. I've no wish to be anything but agreeable. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen; and thank you kindly.

THE BURGLAR [quickly]. Okay, lady, okay. I just want to be friendly. Good evening, everyone; and thank you very much.

He is hurrying out when he is confronted in the doorway by Captain Shotover.

He rushes out just as Captain Shotover confronts him in the doorway.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [fixing the burglar with a piercing regard]. What's this? Are there two of you?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [giving the burglar a sharp look]. What's going on? Are there two of you?

THE BURGLAR [falling on his knees before the captain in abject terror]. Oh, my good Lord, what have I done? Don't tell me it's your house I've broken into, Captain Shotover.

THE BURGLAR [falling on his knees before the captain in absolute fear]. Oh, my good Lord, what have I done? Please don't tell me I've broken into your house, Captain Shotover.

The captain seizes him by the collar: drags him to his feet: and leads him to the middle of the group, Hector falling back beside his wife to make way for them.

The captain grabs him by the collar, pulls him to his feet, and brings him to the center of the group, with Hector stepping back beside his wife to let them through.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [turning him towards Ellie]. Is that your daughter? [He releases him].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [turning him towards Ellie]. Is that your daughter? [He lets him go].

THE BURGLAR. Well, how do I know, Captain? You know the sort of life you and me has led. Any young lady of that age might be my daughter anywhere in the wide world, as you might say.

THE BURGLAR. Well, how am I supposed to know, Captain? You know the kind of life we’ve both lived. Any young lady at that age could be my daughter anywhere in the world, if you think about it.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mazzini]. You are not Billy Dunn. This is Billy Dunn. Why have you imposed on me?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [to Mazzini]. You’re not Billy Dunn. This is Billy Dunn. Why have you deceived me?

THE BURGLAR [indignantly to Mazzini]. Have you been giving yourself out to be me? You, that nigh blew my head off! Shooting yourself, in a manner of speaking!

THE BURGLAR [indignantly to Mazzini]. Have you been pretending to be me? You, who almost blew my head off! Shooting yourself, in a way!

MAZZINI. My dear Captain Shotover, ever since I came into this house I have done hardly anything else but assure you that I am not Mr William Dunn, but Mazzini Dunn, a very different person.

MAZZINI. My dear Captain Shotover, ever since I arrived in this house, I've done nothing but assure you that I am not Mr. William Dunn, but Mazzini Dunn, a completely different person.

THE BURGLAR. He don't belong to my branch, Captain. There's two sets in the family: the thinking Dunns and the drinking Dunns, each going their own ways. I'm a drinking Dunn: he's a thinking Dunn. But that didn't give him any right to shoot me.

THE BURGLAR. He doesn't belong to my side of the family, Captain. There are two groups in the family: the thinking Dunns and the drinking Dunns, each going their own way. I'm a drinking Dunn; he's a thinking Dunn. But that doesn't give him any right to shoot me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. So you've turned burglar, have you?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. So you've become a burglar, huh?

THE BURGLAR. No, Captain: I wouldn't disgrace our old sea calling by such a thing. I am no burglar.

THE BURGLAR. No, Captain: I wouldn't tarnish our old sea profession by doing something like that. I'm not a burglar.

LADY UTTERWORD. What were you doing with my diamonds?

GUINNESS. What did you break into the house for if you're no burglar?

GUINNESS. What did you break into the house for if you're not a burglar?

RANDALL. Mistook the house for your own and came in by the wrong window, eh?

RANDALL. You confused this house with yours and came in through the wrong window, huh?

THE BURGLAR. Well, it's no use my telling you a lie: I can take in most captains, but not Captain Shotover, because he sold himself to the devil in Zanzibar, and can divine water, spot gold, explode a cartridge in your pocket with a glance of his eye, and see the truth hidden in the heart of man. But I'm no burglar.

THE BURGLAR. Well, there's no point in lying to you: I can fool most captains, but not Captain Shotover, because he sold his soul to the devil in Zanzibar. He can find water, detect gold, set off a cartridge in your pocket with just a look, and see the truth that lies in a person's heart. But I'm no burglar.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Are you an honest man?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Are you a trustworthy person?

THE BURGLAR. I don't set up to be better than my fellow-creatures, and never did, as you well know, Captain. But what I do is innocent and pious. I enquire about for houses where the right sort of people live. I work it on them same as I worked it here. I break into the house; put a few spoons or diamonds in my pocket; make a noise; get caught; and take up a collection. And you wouldn't believe how hard it is to get caught when you're actually trying to. I have knocked over all the chairs in a room without a soul paying any attention to me. In the end I have had to walk out and leave the job.

THE BURGLAR. I'm not claiming to be better than anyone else, and I never have, as you know, Captain. But what I do is harmless and righteous. I look for houses where the right kind of people live. I operate the same way I did here. I break into the house, grab a few spoons or diamonds, make some noise, get caught, and ask for donations. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to get caught when you actually want to. I've knocked over all the chairs in a room and no one even noticed me. In the end, I've had to just walk out and abandon the job.

RANDALL. When that happens, do you put back the spoons and diamonds?

RANDALL. When that happens, do you put the spoons and diamonds back?

THE BURGLAR. Well, I don't fly in the face of Providence, if that's what you want to know.

THE BURGLAR. Well, I don’t challenge fate, if that’s what you’re asking.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Guinness, you remember this man?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Guinness, do you remember this guy?

GUINNESS. I should think I do, seeing I was married to him, the blackguard!

GUINNESS. I definitely do, considering I was married to him, that scoundrel!

HESIONE [exclaiming together] { Married to him!

LADY UTTERWORD {Guinness!!

THE BURGLAR. It wasn't legal. I've been married to no end of women. No use coming that over me.

THE BURGLAR. It wasn't legal. I've been married to a ton of women. There's no point in trying to pull that over on me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Take him to the forecastle [he flings him to the door with a strength beyond his years].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Take him to the front of the ship [he throws him towards the door with a strength beyond his years].

GUINNESS. I suppose you mean the kitchen. They won't have him there. Do you expect servants to keep company with thieves and all sorts?

GUINNESS. I guess you're talking about the kitchen. They won't let him in there. Do you really think servants would hang out with thieves and that kind of crowd?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Land-thieves and water-thieves are the same flesh and blood. I'll have no boatswain on my quarter-deck. Off with you both.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Land thieves and water thieves are all cut from the same cloth. I don't want either of you on my quarter-deck. Get out of here, both of you.

THE BURGLAR. Yes, Captain. [He goes out humbly].

THE BURGLAR. Yeah, Captain. [He exits modestly].

MAZZINI. Will it be safe to have him in the house like that?

MAZZINI. Is it safe to have him in the house like that?

GUINNESS. Why didn't you shoot him, sir? If I'd known who he was, I'd have shot him myself. [She goes out].

GUINNESS. Why didn’t you shoot him, sir? If I’d known who he was, I would have shot him myself. [She goes out].

MRS HUSHABYE. Do sit down, everybody. [She sits down on the sofa].

MRS HUSHABYE. Please take a seat, everyone. [She sits down on the sofa].

They all move except Ellie. Mazzini resumes his seat. Randall sits down in the window-seat near the starboard door, again making a pendulum of his poker, and studying it as Galileo might have done. Hector sits on his left, in the middle. Mangan, forgotten, sits in the port corner. Lady Utterword takes the big chair. Captain Shotover goes into the pantry in deep abstraction. They all look after him: and Lady Utterword coughs consciously.

They all move except Ellie. Mazzini goes back to his seat. Randall sits down in the window seat by the starboard door, swinging his poker back and forth like a pendulum, studying it as Galileo might have. Hector sits to his left, in the middle. Mangan, unnoticed, sits in the port corner. Lady Utterword takes the large chair. Captain Shotover heads into the pantry, deep in thought. They all watch him, and Lady Utterword coughs softly to get their attention.

MRS HUSHABYE. So Billy Dunn was poor nurse's little romance. I knew there had been somebody.

MRS HUSHABYE. So Billy Dunn was the nurse's little fling. I knew there had been someone.

RANDALL. They will fight their battles over again and enjoy themselves immensely.

RANDALL. They'll re-fight their battles and have a great time.

LADY UTTERWORD [irritably]. You are not married; and you know nothing about it, Randall. Hold your tongue.

LADY UTTERWORD [irritably]. You're not married, and you don't know anything about it, Randall. Just be quiet.

RANDALL. Tyrant!

RANDALL. Oppressor!

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we have had a very exciting evening. Everything will be an anticlimax after it. We'd better all go to bed.

MRS HUSHABYE. Well, we’ve had a really exciting evening. Everything else will seem dull after this. We should all head to bed now.

RANDALL. Another burglar may turn up.

RANDALL. Another burglar might show up.

MAZZINI. Oh, impossible! I hope not.

MAZZINI. Oh, no way! I really hope not.

RANDALL. Why not? There is more than one burglar in England.

RANDALL. Why not? There’s more than one burglar in England.

MRS HUSHABYE. What do you say, Alf?

MRS HUSHABYE. What do you think, Alf?

MANGAN [huffily]. Oh, I don't matter. I'm forgotten. The burglar has put my nose out of joint. Shove me into a corner and have done with me.

MANGAN [huffily]. Oh, I don’t matter. I’m forgotten. The burglar has messed things up for me. Just shove me into a corner and be done with it.

MRS HUSHABYE [jumping up mischievously, and going to him]. Would you like a walk on the heath, Alfred? With me?

MRS HUSHABYE [jumping up playfully and going to him]. Want to take a walk on the heath, Alfred? With me?

ELLIE. Go, Mr Mangan. It will do you good. Hesione will soothe you.

ELLIE. Go on, Mr. Mangan. It'll be good for you. Hesione will calm you down.

MRS HUSHABYE [slipping her arm under his and pulling him upright]. Come, Alfred. There is a moon: it's like the night in Tristan and Isolde. [She caresses his arm and draws him to the port garden door].

MRS HUSHABYE [slipping her arm under his and pulling him upright]. Come on, Alfred. There's a moon out; it's like the night in Tristan and Isolde. [She caresses his arm and leads him to the port garden door].

MANGAN [writhing but yielding]. How you can have the face-the heart-[he breaks down and is heard sobbing as she takes him out].

MANGAN [struggling but giving in]. I can't believe you have the nerve—the heart—[he breaks down and is heard crying as she takes him away].

LADY UTTERWORD. What an extraordinary way to behave! What is the matter with the man?

LADY UTTERWORD. What an unusual way to act! What's wrong with that guy?

ELLIE [in a strangely calm voice, staring into an imaginary distance]. His heart is breaking: that is all. [The captain appears at the pantry door, listening]. It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.

ELLIE [in a strangely calm voice, staring into an imaginary distance]. His heart is breaking: that’s all. [The captain appears at the pantry door, listening]. It’s a strange feeling: the kind of pain that goes mercifully beyond what we can actually feel. When your heart is broken, your ships are burned: nothing matters anymore. It’s the end of happiness and the start of peace.

LADY UTTERWORD [suddenly rising in a rage, to the astonishment of the rest]. How dare you?

LADY UTTERWORD [suddenly standing up in anger, shocking everyone else]. How dare you?

HECTOR. Good heavens! What's the matter?

HECTOR. Oh my gosh! What's wrong?

RANDALL [in a warning whisper]. Tch—tch-tch! Steady.

RANDALL [in a warning whisper]. Tsk—tsk! Easy now.

ELLIE [surprised and haughty]. I was not addressing you particularly, Lady Utterword. And I am not accustomed to being asked how dare I.

ELLIE [surprised and arrogant]. I wasn't specifically talking to you, Lady Utterword. And I'm not used to being questioned about how I dare.

LADY UTTERWORD. Of course not. Anyone can see how badly you have been brought up.

LADY UTTERWORD. Of course not. It’s obvious how poorly you were raised.

MAZZINI. Oh, I hope not, Lady Utterword. Really!

MAZZINI. Oh, I really hope not, Lady Utterword!

LADY UTTERWORD. I know very well what you meant. The impudence!

LADY UTTERWORD. I know exactly what you meant. How rude!

ELLIE. What on earth do you mean?

ELLIE. What do you mean?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [advancing to the table]. She means that her heart will not break. She has been longing all her life for someone to break it. At last she has become afraid she has none to break.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [moving to the table]. She means that her heart won’t break. She’s been wanting someone to break it her whole life. Now she’s finally afraid that there’s no one who will.

LADY UTTERWORD [flinging herself on her knees and throwing her arms round him]. Papa, don't say you think I've no heart.

LADY UTTERWORD [throwing herself on her knees and wrapping her arms around him]. Dad, please don’t say you think I have no feelings.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising her with grim tenderness]. If you had no heart how could you want to have it broken, child?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [raising her with grim tenderness]. If you didn't have a heart, how could you want it to be broken, child?

HECTOR [rising with a bound]. Lady Utterword, you are not to be trusted. You have made a scene [he runs out into the garden through the starboard door].

HECTOR [jumping up]. Lady Utterword, you can't be trusted. You've created a scene [he runs out into the garden through the starboard door].

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh! Hector, Hector! [she runs out after him].

RANDALL. Only nerves, I assure you. [He rises and follows her, waving the poker in his agitation]. Ariadne! Ariadne! For God's sake, be careful. You will—[he is gone].

RANDALL. Just nerves, I promise you. [He gets up and follows her, waving the poker in his anxiety]. Ariadne! Ariadne! Please, be careful. You will—[he is gone].

MAZZINI [rising]. How distressing! Can I do anything, I wonder?

MAZZINI [standing up]. How upsetting! Is there anything I can do, I wonder?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [promptly taking his chair and setting to work at the drawing-board]. No. Go to bed. Good-night.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [quickly taking his chair and getting to work at the drawing board]. No. Go to bed. Good night.

MAZZINI [bewildered]. Oh! Perhaps you are right.

MAZZINI [confused]. Oh! Maybe you’re right.

ELLIE. Good-night, dearest. [She kisses him].

ELLIE. Good night, love. [She kisses him].

MAZZINI. Good-night, love. [He makes for the 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 captain].

MAZZINI. Goodnight, love. [He heads for the door but turns to the bookshelves]. I'll just grab a book. [He picks one up]. Goodnight. [He exits, leaving Ellie alone with the captain].

The captain is intent on his drawing. Ellie, standing sentry over his chair, contemplates him for a moment.

The captain is focused on his drawing. Ellie, standing guard by his chair, observes him for a moment.

ELLIE. Does nothing ever disturb you, Captain Shotover?

ELLIE. Does anything ever bother you, Captain Shotover?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I've stood on the bridge for eighteen hours in a typhoon. Life here is stormier; but I can stand it.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I've been on the bridge for eighteen hours in a typhoon. Life here is rougher; but I can handle it.

ELLIE. Do you think I ought to marry Mr Mangan?

ELLIE. Do you think I should marry Mr. Mangan?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [never looking up]. One rock is as good as another to be wrecked on.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [never looking up]. One rock is just as good as another to crash into.

ELLIE. I am not in love with him.

ELLIE. I'm not in love with him.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Who said you were?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Who told you that you were?

ELLIE. You are not surprised?

ELLIE. You're 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.

ELLIE. It seems totally fair to me. He wants me for one thing; I want him for another.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Money?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Cash?

ELLIE. Yes.

ELLIE. Yeah.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Well, one turns the cheek: the other kisses it. One provides the cash: the other spends it.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Well, one turns the cheek; the other kisses it. One provides the cash; the other spends it.

ELLIE. Who will have the best of the bargain, I wonder?

ELLIE. I wonder who will get the better deal?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You. These fellows live in an office all day. You will have to 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 will be shopping with his money. If that is too much for you, marry a seafaring man: you will be bothered with him only three weeks in the year, perhaps.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You. These guys spend all day in an office. You’ll have to deal with him from dinner to breakfast, but you’ll both be asleep most of that time. The whole day, you won’t have to see him; and you’ll be shopping with his money. If that’s too much for you, marry a sailor: you’ll only have to deal with him for maybe three weeks a year.

ELLIE. That would be best of all, I suppose.

ELLIE. That would probably be the best option.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's a dangerous thing to be married right up to the hilt, like my daughter's husband. The man is at home all day, like a damned soul in hell.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's a risky business being fully married, like my daughter's husband. The guy is home all 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.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. If you're marrying for business, you can't be too practical.

ELLIE. Why do women always want other women's husbands?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why do horse-thieves prefer a horse that is broken-in to one that is wild?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why do horse thieves choose a trained horse over a wild one?

ELLIE [with a short laugh]. I suppose so. What a vile world it is!

ELLIE [with a short laugh]. I guess so. What a terrible world this is!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It doesn't concern me. I'm nearly out of it.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s not my problem. I’m almost done with it.

ELLIE. And I'm only just beginning.

ELLIE. And I'm just getting started.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yes; so look ahead.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Yeah; so keep your eyes on the future.

ELLIE. Well, I think I am being very prudent.

ELLIE. Well, I think I'm being really cautious.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I didn't say prudent. I said look ahead.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I didn't say careful. I said think ahead.

ELLIE. What's the difference?

ELLIE. What's the difference now?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's prudent to gain the whole world and lose your own soul. But don't forget that your soul sticks to you if you stick to it; but the world has a way of slipping through your fingers.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It's wise to gain everything in the world and lose your own soul. But remember, your soul stays with you if you nurture it; meanwhile, the world has a way of slipping away from you.

ELLIE [wearily, leaving him and beginning to wander restlessly about the room]. I'm sorry, Captain Shotover; but it's no use talking like that to me. Old-fashioned people are no use to me. Old-fashioned people think you can have a soul without money. They think the less money you have, the more soul you have. Young people nowadays know better. A soul is a very expensive thing to keep: much more so than a motor car.

ELLIE [wearily, leaving him and starting to wander restlessly around the room]. I'm sorry, Captain Shotover; but it’s pointless to talk to me like that. Old-fashioned people aren’t helpful to me. Old-fashioned people believe you can have a soul without money. They think that the less money you have, the richer your soul is. Young people today understand better. A soul is a very costly thing to maintain: much more than a car.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is it? How much does your soul eat?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is it? How much does your soul consume?

ELLIE. Oh, a lot. It eats music and pictures and books and mountains and lakes and beautiful things to wear and nice people to be with. In this country you can't have them without lots of money: that is why our souls are so horribly starved.

ELLIE. Oh, a lot. It consumes music and photos and books and mountains and lakes and beautiful clothes and nice people to hang out with. In this country, you can't have them without a lot of money: that’s why our souls are so terribly starved.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Mangan's soul lives on pig's food.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Mangan's soul survives on pig food.

ELLIE. Yes: money is thrown away on him. I suppose his soul was starved when he was young. But it will not be thrown away on me. It is just because I want to save my soul that I am marrying for money. All the women who are not fools do.

ELLIE. Yes, money is wasted on him. I guess his soul was deprived when he was young. But it won't be wasted on me. It's precisely because I want to save my soul that I'm marrying for money. All the smart women do.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are other ways of getting money. Why don't you steal it?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are other ways to get money. Why don't you just steal it?

ELLIE. Because I don't want to go to prison.

ELLIE. Because I don't want to end up in jail.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is that the only reason? Are you quite sure honesty has nothing to do with it?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Is that the only reason? Are you really sure honesty has nothing to do with it?

ELLIE. Oh, you are very very old-fashioned, Captain. Does any modern girl believe that the legal and illegal ways of getting money are the honest and dishonest ways? Mangan robbed my father and my father's friends. I should rob all the money back from Mangan if the police would let me. As they won't, I must get it back by marrying him.

ELLIE. Oh, you are so old-fashioned, Captain. Does any modern girl really think that the legal and illegal ways of getting money are the same as honest and dishonest ways? Mangan stole from my father and his friends. I should take back all the money from Mangan if the police would allow me. Since they won't, I have to get it back by marrying him.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can't argue: I'm too old: my mind is made up and finished. All I can tell you is that, old-fashioned or new-fashioned, if you sell yourself, you deal your soul a blow that all the books and pictures and concerts and scenery in the world won't heal [he gets up suddenly and makes for the pantry].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can’t argue: I’m too old; my mind is made up and settled. All I can say is that, whether it’s old-school or new-school, if you sell yourself, you deal your soul a wound that all the books, movies, concerts, and beautiful sights in the world won’t fix [he gets up suddenly and heads for the pantry].

ELLIE [running after him and seizing him by the sleeve]. Then why did you sell yourself to the devil in Zanzibar?

ELLIE [running after him and grabbing his sleeve]. So why did you make a deal with the devil in Zanzibar?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping, startled]. What?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [stopping, surprised]. What?

ELLIE. You shall not run away before you answer. I have found out that trick of yours. If you sold yourself, why shouldn't I?

ELLIE. You're not allowed to run away before you answer. I’ve figured out your trick. If you sold yourself, why shouldn’t I?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I had to deal with men so degraded that they wouldn't obey me unless I swore at them and kicked them and beat them with my fists. Foolish people took young thieves off the streets; flung them into a training ship where they were taught to fear the cane instead of fearing God; and thought they'd made men and sailors of them by private subscription. I tricked these thieves into believing I'd sold myself to the devil. It saved my soul from the kicking and swearing that was damning me by inches.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I had to work with guys so low that they wouldn’t listen to me unless I yelled at them, kicked them, and beat them with my fists. Naive people took young thieves off the streets and threw them onto a training ship, where they learned to fear the punishment instead of fearing God, and thought they had turned them into men and sailors through private donations. I fooled these thieves into thinking I had sold my soul to the devil. It saved me from the beatings and curses that were slowly ruining me.

ELLIE [releasing him]. I shall pretend to sell myself to Boss Mangan to save my soul from the poverty that is damning me by inches.

ELLIE [letting him go]. I'm going to pretend to sell myself to Boss Mangan to save my soul from the slow death of poverty.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Riches will damn you ten times deeper. Riches won't save even your body.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Wealth will doom you ten times more. Money won't even save your body.

ELLIE. Old-fashioned again. We know now that the soul is the body, and the body the soul. They tell us they are different because they want to persuade us that we can keep our souls if we let them make slaves of our bodies. I am afraid you are no use to me, Captain.

ELLIE. Here we go with the old-fashioned ideas again. We now understand that the soul is the body, and the body is the soul. They say they're different because they want to convince us that we can hold onto our souls while letting them turn our bodies into slaves. I'm afraid you’re not helpful to me, Captain.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What did you expect? A Savior, eh? Are you old-fashioned enough to believe in that?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What did you expect? A Savior, huh? Are you really old-fashioned enough to believe in that?

ELLIE. No. But I thought you were very wise, and might help me. Now I have found you out. You pretend to be busy, and think of fine things to say, and run in and out to surprise people by saying them, and get away before they can answer you.

ELLIE. No. But I thought you were really wise and could help me. Now I've figured you out. You act like you're busy, come up with clever things to say, pop in and out to catch people off guard with your comments, and leave before they can respond.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It confuses me to be answered. It discourages me. I cannot bear men and women. I have to run away. I must run away now [he tries to].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Being answered confuses me. It disheartens me. I can't stand men and women. I need to escape. I have to get away now [he tries to].

ELLIE [again seizing his arm]. You shall not run away from me. I can hypnotize you. You are the only person in the house I can say what I like to. I know you are fond of me. Sit down. [She draws him to the sofa].

ELLIE [again grabbing his arm]. You’re not going to run away from me. I can hypnotize you. You're the only person in the house I can talk to freely. I know you care about me. Sit down. [She pulls him to the sofa].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [yielding]. Take care: I am in my dotage. Old men are dangerous: it doesn't matter to them what is going to happen to the world.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [yielding]. Be careful: I'm getting old. Elderly men can be unpredictable: they don’t care about what will happen to the world.

They sit side by side on the sofa. She leans affectionately against him with her head on his shoulder and her eyes half closed.

They sit next to each other on the couch. She leans lovingly against him, resting her head on his shoulder with her eyes half closed.

ELLIE [dreamily]. I should have thought nothing else mattered to old men. They can't be very interested in what is going to happen to themselves.

ELLIE [dreamily]. I should have figured that nothing else mattered to old men. They can't really care about what’s going to happen to them.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A man's interest in the world is only the overflow from his interest in himself. When you are a child your vessel is not yet full; so you care for nothing but your own affairs. When you grow up, your vessel overflows; and you are a politician, a philosopher, or an explorer and adventurer. In old age the vessel dries up: there is no overflow: you are a child again. I can give you the memories of my ancient wisdom: mere scraps and leavings; but I no longer really care for anything but my own little wants and hobbies. I sit here working out my old ideas as a means of destroying my fellow-creatures. I see my daughters and their men living foolish lives of romance and sentiment and snobbery. I see you, the younger generation, turning from their romance and sentiment and snobbery to money and comfort and hard common sense. I was ten times happier on the bridge in the typhoon, or frozen into Arctic ice for months in darkness, than you or they have ever been. You are looking for a rich husband. At your age I looked for hardship, danger, horror, and death, that I might feel the life in me more intensely. I did not let the fear of death govern my life; and my reward was, I had my life. You are going to let the fear of poverty govern your life; and your reward will be that you will eat, but you will not live.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. A person's interest in the world is just an extension of their interest in themselves. When you're a child, your cup isn't full yet; so you only care about your own issues. As you grow up, your cup overflows, and you become a politician, a philosopher, or an explorer and adventurer. In old age, your cup dries up: there’s no overflow anymore, and you’re a child again. I can share with you the bits of my old wisdom: mere scraps and leftovers; but I don't truly care about anything other than my own little needs and interests. I sit here piecing together my old ideas as a way to undermine my fellow beings. I see my daughters and their partners living silly lives filled with romance and sentiment and snobbery. I see you, the younger generation, shifting from romance and sentiment and snobbery to money and comfort and practicality. I was ten times happier standing on the bridge during a typhoon or trapped in Arctic ice for months in darkness than you or they have ever been. You’re looking for a rich husband. At your age, I sought out hardship, danger, horror, and death, so I could feel life more intensely. I didn’t let the fear of death control my life, and my reward was that I truly lived. You’re going to let the fear of poverty control your life, and your reward will be that you’ll eat, but you won’t truly live.

ELLIE [sitting up impatiently]. But what can I do? I am not a sea captain: I can't stand on bridges in typhoons, or go slaughtering seals and whales in Greenland's icy mountains. They won't let women be captains. Do you want me to be a stewardess?

ELLIE [sitting up impatiently]. But what can I do? I'm not a sea captain: I can't stand on bridges in typhoons, or go hunting seals and whales in Greenland's icy mountains. They won't let women be captains. Do you want me to be a flight attendant?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are worse lives. The stewardesses could come ashore if they liked; but they sail and sail and sail.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There are worse lives. The stewardesses could come ashore if they wanted; but they keep sailing and sailing and sailing.

ELLIE. What could they do ashore but marry for money? I don't want to be a stewardess: I am too bad a sailor. Think of something else for me.

ELLIE. What else could they do on land but marry for money? I don't want to be a stewardess; I'm not a good sailor. Think of something else for me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can't think so long and continuously. I am too old. I must go in and out. [He tries to rise].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I can't think for that long; I'm too old. I need to come and go. [He tries to get up].

ELLIE [pulling him back]. You shall not. You are happy here, aren't you?

ELLIE [pulling him back]. You can't leave. You're happy here, right?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I tell you it's dangerous to keep me. I can't keep awake and alert.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I'm telling you, it's dangerous to hold onto me. I can't stay awake and alert.

ELLIE. What do you run away for? To sleep?

ELLIE. Why are you running away? To go to sleep?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. To get a glass of rum.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. To get a drink of rum.

ELLIE [frightfully disillusioned]. Is that it? How disgusting! Do you like being drunk?

ELLIE [frighteningly disillusioned]. Is that it? How gross! Do you enjoy being drunk?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No: I dread being drunk more than anything in the world. To be drunk means to have dreams; to go soft; to be easily pleased and deceived; to fall into the clutches of women. Drink does that for you when you are young. But when you are old: very very old, like me, the dreams come by themselves. You don't know how terrible that is: you are young: you sleep at night only, and sleep soundly. But later on you will sleep in the afternoon. Later still you will sleep even in the morning; and you will awake tired, tired of life. You will never be free from dozing and dreams; the dreams will steal upon your work every ten minutes unless you can awaken yourself with rum. I drink now to keep sober; but the dreams are conquering: rum is not what it was: I have had ten glasses since you came; and it might be so much water. Go get me another: Guinness knows where it is. You had better see for yourself the horror of an old man drinking.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No: I fear being drunk more than anything else in the world. Being drunk means having dreams; it makes you soft; you become easily pleased and fooled; you fall into the hands of women. Alcohol does that for you when you’re young. But when you’re old—very, very old, like me—the dreams come on their own. You have no idea how awful that is: you’re young; you sleep at night only, and you sleep soundly. But eventually, you’ll nap in the afternoon. Even later, you’ll sleep in the morning, and you’ll wake up exhausted, tired of life. You’ll never escape dozing and dreams; they’ll sneak into your work every ten minutes unless you can wake yourself up with rum. I drink now to stay sober; but the dreams are winning: rum isn’t what it used to be: I’ve had ten glasses since you arrived, and it might as well be water. Go get me another: Guinness knows where it is. You should see for yourself the horror of an old man drinking.

ELLIE. You shall not drink. Dream. I like you to dream. You must never be in the real world when we talk together.

ELLIE. You can't drink. Dream. I want you to dream. You should never be in the real world when we’re talking.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I am too weary to resist, or too weak. I am in my second childhood. I do not see you as you really are. I can't remember what I really am. I feel nothing but the accursed happiness I have dreaded all my life long: the happiness that comes as life goes, the happiness of yielding and dreaming instead of resisting and doing, the sweetness of the fruit that is going rotten.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I'm too tired to fight back, or maybe I'm just too weak. I feel like I'm in my second childhood. I don't see you for who you actually are. I can't recall who I truly am. All I feel is the cursed happiness I've feared my whole life: the happiness that comes with time, the happiness of giving in and dreaming instead of fighting and taking action, the sweetness of fruit that's starting to rot.

ELLIE. You dread it almost as much as I used to dread losing my dreams and having to fight and do things. But that is all over for me: my dreams are dashed to pieces. I should like to marry a very old, very rich man. I should like to marry you. I had much rather marry you than marry Mangan. Are you very rich?

ELLIE. You fear it almost as much as I used to fear losing my dreams and having to struggle and take action. But that’s all behind me: my dreams are shattered. I want to marry a really old, really rich man. I want to marry you. I would much rather marry you than Mangan. Are you very rich?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. Living from hand to mouth. And I have a wife somewhere in Jamaica: a black one. My first wife. Unless she's dead.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No. Just getting by day to day. And I have a wife somewhere in Jamaica: a Black woman. My first wife. Unless she's dead.

ELLIE. What a pity! I feel so happy with you. [She takes his hand, almost unconsciously, and pats it]. I thought I should never feel happy again.

ELLIE. What a shame! I feel so happy with you. [She takes his hand, almost without thinking, and pats it]. I thought I’d never feel happy again.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Why that?

ELLIE. Don't you know?

ELLIE. Don't you get it?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. No.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Nope.

ELLIE. Heartbreak. I fell in love with Hector, and didn't know he was married.

ELLIE. Heartbreak. I fell in love with Hector, and I didn’t know he was married.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Heartbreak? Are you one of those who are so sufficient to themselves that they are only happy when they are stripped of everything, even of hope?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Heartbreak? Are you one of those people who are so self-sufficient that they’re only happy when they’ve lost everything, even hope?

ELLIE [gripping the hand]. It seems so; for I feel now as if there was nothing I could not do, because I want nothing.

ELLIE [gripping the hand]. It feels that way; because right now, I feel like there's nothing I can't do, since I want nothing.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That's the only real strength. That's genius. That's better than rum.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That's the only true strength. That's genius. That's better than liquor.

ELLIE [throwing away his hand]. Rum! Why did you spoil it?

ELLIE [throwing away his hand]. Rum! Why did you mess it up?

Hector and Randall come in from the garden through the starboard door.

Hector and Randall come in from the garden through the right door.

HECTOR. I beg your pardon. We did not know there was anyone here.

HECTOR. Sorry about that. We didn't realize anyone was here.

ELLIE [rising]. That means that you want to tell Mr Randall the story about the tiger. Come, Captain: I want to talk to my father; and you had better come with me.

ELLIE [standing up]. So, you want to tell Mr. Randall the story about the tiger. Come on, Captain; I need to talk to my dad, and you should come with me.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [rising]. Nonsense! the man is in bed.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [getting up]. Nonsense! The guy is in bed.

ELLIE. Aha! I've caught you. My real father has gone to bed; but the father you gave me is in the kitchen. You knew quite well all along. Come. [She draws him out into the garden with her through the port door].

ELLIE. Aha! Gotcha. My real dad has gone to bed, but the dad you gave me is in the kitchen. You knew that all along. Come on. [She pulls him out into the garden with her through the back door].

HECTOR. That's an extraordinary girl. She has the Ancient Mariner on a string like a Pekinese dog.

HECTOR. She's an amazing girl. She has the Ancient Mariner wrapped around her finger like a small dog.

RANDALL. Now that they have gone, shall we have a friendly chat?

RANDALL. Now that they're gone, should we have a friendly chat?

HECTOR. You are in what is supposed to be my house. I am at your disposal.

HECTOR. You're in what is supposed to be my house. I'm here for you.

Hector sits down in the draughtsman's chair, turning it to face Randall, who remains standing, leaning at his ease against the carpenter's bench.

Hector sits in the draftsman's chair, turning it to face Randall, who is still standing, casually leaning against the carpenter's bench.

RANDALL. I take it that we may be quite frank. I mean about Lady Utterword.

RANDALL. I assume we can be completely honest. I mean about Lady Utterword.

HECTOR. You may. I have nothing to be frank about. I never met her until this afternoon.

HECTOR. You can. I have nothing to be open about. I didn’t meet her until this afternoon.

RANDALL [straightening up]. What! But you are her sister's husband.

RANDALL [straightening up]. What! But you’re her sister’s husband.

HECTOR. Well, if you come to that, you are her husband's brother.

HECTOR. Well, if we’re being honest, you’re her husband’s brother.

RANDALL. But you seem to be on intimate terms with her.

RANDALL. But it looks like you’re pretty close with her.

HECTOR. So do you.

You too.

RANDALL. Yes: but I AM on intimate terms with her. I have known her for years.

RANDALL. Yes, but I’m really close with her. I’ve known her for years.

HECTOR. It took her years to get to the same point with you that she got to with me in five minutes, it seems.

HECTOR. It seems like it took her years to reach the same level with you that she got to with me in just five minutes.

RANDALL [vexed]. Really, Ariadne is the limit [he moves away huffishly towards the windows].

RANDALL [frustrated]. Honestly, Ariadne is beyond annoying [he moves away in a huff towards the windows].

HECTOR [coolly]. She is, as I remarked to Hesione, a very enterprising woman.

HECTOR [coolly]. She is, as I mentioned to Hesione, a very ambitious woman.

RANDALL [returning, much troubled]. You see, Hushabye, you are what women consider a good-looking man.

RANDALL [returning, very troubled]. You see, Hushabye, you are what women think is a good-looking guy.

HECTOR. I cultivated that appearance in the days of my vanity; and Hesione insists on my keeping it up. She makes me wear these ridiculous things [indicating his Arab costume] because she thinks me absurd in evening dress.

HECTOR. I created that look back when I was full of myself; and Hesione insists I maintain it. She makes me wear these ridiculous clothes [indicating his Arab costume] because she thinks I look silly in evening attire.

RANDALL. Still, you do keep it up, old chap. Now, I assure you I have not an atom of jealousy in my disposition.

RANDALL. Still, you keep it going, my friend. Now, I promise you I don't have an ounce of jealousy in my nature.

HECTOR. The question would seem to be rather whether your brother has any touch of that sort.

HECTOR. The question seems to be whether your brother has any sense of that kind.

RANDALL. What! Hastings! Oh, don't trouble about Hastings. He has the gift of being able to work sixteen hours a day at the dullest detail, and actually likes it. That gets him to the top wherever he goes. As long as Ariadne takes care that he is fed regularly, he is only too thankful to anyone who will keep her in good humor for him.

RANDALL. What! Hastings! Oh, don't worry about Hastings. He has the ability to work sixteen hours a day on the most boring tasks, and he actually enjoys it. That gets him ahead no matter where he is. As long as Ariadne makes sure he gets fed regularly, he’s more than grateful to anyone who keeps her happy for him.

HECTOR. And as she has all the Shotover fascination, there is plenty of competition for the job, eh?

HECTOR. And since she has all the Shotover charm, there’s a lot of competition for the job, right?

RANDALL [angrily]. She encourages them. Her conduct is perfectly scandalous. I assure you, my dear fellow, I haven't an atom of jealousy in my composition; but she makes herself the talk of every place she goes to by her thoughtlessness. It's nothing more: she doesn't really care for the men she keeps hanging about her; but how is the world to know that? It's not fair to Hastings. It's not fair to me.

RANDALL [angrily]. She encourages them. Her behavior is completely outrageous. I promise you, my good friend, I don't feel a bit of jealousy; but she gets people talking everywhere she goes because of her thoughtlessness. That's all it is: she doesn't really care about the men she has around her; but how is anyone supposed to know that? It's not fair to Hastings. It's not fair to me.

HECTOR. Her theory is that her conduct is so correct

HECTOR. Her theory is that her behavior is so right

RANDALL. Correct! She does nothing but make scenes from morning till night. You be careful, old chap. She will get you into trouble: that is, she would if she really cared for you.

RANDALL. Right! She just causes drama all day long. Be careful, man. She'll get you into trouble: that is, she would if she actually cared about you.

HECTOR. Doesn't she?

Doesn't she?

RANDALL. Not a scrap. She may want your scalp to add to her collection; but her true affection has been engaged years ago. You had really better be careful.

RANDALL. Not a chance. She might want your head to add to her collection; but she really fell for someone else a long time ago. You should definitely watch out.

HECTOR. Do you suffer much from this jealousy?

HECTOR. Are you struggling a lot with this jealousy?

RANDALL. Jealousy! I jealous! My dear fellow, haven't I told you that there is not an atom of—

RANDALL. Jealousy! Me, jealous! My dear friend, haven't I told you that there's not a bit of—

HECTOR. Yes. And Lady Utterword told me she never made scenes. Well, don't waste your jealousy on my moustache. Never waste jealousy on a real man: it is the imaginary hero that supplants us all in the long run. Besides, jealousy does not belong to your easy man-of-the-world pose, which you carry so well in other respects.

HECTOR. Yes. And Lady Utterword told me she never makes a fuss. Well, don’t waste your jealousy on my mustache. Never waste jealousy on a real man: it’s the imaginary hero that replaces us all in the long run. Plus, jealousy doesn’t fit with your suave man-of-the-world persona, which you pull off so well in other ways.

RANDALL. Really, Hushabye, I think a man may be allowed to be a gentleman without being accused of posing.

RANDALL. Seriously, Hushabye, I think a man should be able to be a gentleman without being accused of showing off.

HECTOR. It is a pose like any other. In this house we know all the poses: our game is to find out the man under the pose. The man under your pose is apparently Ellie's favorite, Othello.

HECTOR. It’s just another pose. In this house, we’re familiar with all the poses: our goal is to discover the person behind the pose. The person behind your pose is apparently Ellie’s favorite, Othello.

RANDALL. Some of your games in this house are damned annoying, let me tell you.

RANDALL. Some of the games you play in this house are really annoying, just so you know.

HECTOR. Yes: I have been their victim for many years. I used to writhe under them at first; but I became accustomed to them. At last I learned to play them.

HECTOR. Yeah: I've been their victim for a long time. I used to struggle under them at first; but I got used to them. Eventually, I learned to play them.

RANDALL. If it's all the same to you I had rather you didn't play them on me. You evidently don't quite understand my character, or my notions of good form.

RANDALL. If you don't mind, I'd prefer if you didn't play those games with me. Clearly, you don't fully understand my character or my ideas about what's proper.

HECTOR. Is it your notion of good form to give away Lady Utterword?

HECTOR. Do you think it's proper to give away Lady Utterword?

RANDALL [a childishly plaintive note breaking into his huff]. I have not said a word against Lady Utterword. This is just the conspiracy over again.

RANDALL [with a whiny tone interrupting his frustration]. I haven’t said anything bad about Lady Utterword. This is just the same old conspiracy all over again.

HECTOR. What conspiracy?

HECTOR. Which conspiracy?

RANDALL. You know very well, sir. A conspiracy to make me out to be pettish and jealous and childish and everything I am not. Everyone knows I am just the opposite.

RANDALL. You know exactly what you’re doing, sir. There’s a plot to paint me as whiny, jealous, childish, and everything I’m not. Everyone knows I’m just the opposite.

HECTOR [rising]. Something in the air of the house has upset you. It often does have that effect. [He goes to the garden door and calls Lady Utterword with commanding emphasis]. Ariadne!

HECTOR [standing up]. There's something in the atmosphere of this house that's bothering you. It usually has that effect. [He approaches the garden door and calls out to Lady Utterword with a commanding tone]. Ariadne!

LADY UTTERWORD [at some distance]. Yes.

LADY UTTERWORD [from a distance]. Yes.

RANDALL. What are you calling her for? I want to speak—

RANDALL. Why are you calling her? I want to talk—

LADY UTTERWORD [arriving breathless]. Yes. You really are a terribly commanding person. What's the matter?

LADY UTTERWORD [arriving breathless]. Yes. You truly are a very imposing person. What’s wrong?

HECTOR. I do not know how to manage your friend Randall. No doubt you do.

HECTOR. I have no idea how to deal with your friend Randall. I’m sure you do, though.

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall: have you been making yourself ridiculous, as usual? I can see it in your face. Really, you are the most pettish creature.

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall: have you been embarrassing yourself again? I can see it in your face. Honestly, you are the most cantankerous person.

RANDALL. You know quite well, Ariadne, that I have not an ounce of pettishness in my disposition. I have made myself perfectly pleasant here. I have remained absolutely cool and imperturbable in the face of a burglar. Imperturbability is almost too strong a point of mine. But [putting his foot down with a stamp, and walking angrily up and down the room] I insist on being treated with a certain consideration. I will not allow Hushabye to take liberties with me. I will not stand your encouraging people as you do.

RANDALL. You know very well, Ariadne, that I’m not the least bit fussy. I’ve been completely pleasant here. I’ve stayed totally calm and unflappable even when faced with a burglar. Staying calm is pretty much my strong suit. But [stomping his foot and pacing angrily around the room] I expect to be treated with some respect. I won’t let Hushabye push me around. I won’t tolerate you encouraging people like this.

HECTOR. The man has a rooted delusion that he is your husband.

HECTOR. The guy genuinely believes that he is your husband.

LADY UTTERWORD. I know. He is jealous. As if he had any right to be! He compromises me everywhere. He makes scenes all over the place. Randall: I will not allow it. I simply will not allow it. You had no right to discuss me with Hector. I will not be discussed by men.

LADY UTTERWORD. I know. He’s jealous. As if he has any right to be! He makes me look bad everywhere. He causes drama all over the place. Randall: I won't put up with it. I just won’t. You had no right to talk about me with Hector. I won’t be talked about by men.

HECTOR. Be reasonable, Ariadne. Your fatal gift of beauty forces men to discuss you.

HECTOR. Be reasonable, Ariadne. Your dangerous beauty makes men talk about you.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh indeed! what about YOUR fatal gift of beauty?

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh really! What about YOUR deadly gift of beauty?

HECTOR. How can I help it?

HECTOR. What can I do about it?

LADY UTTERWORD. You could cut off your moustache: I can't cut off my nose. I get my whole life messed up with people falling in love with me. And then Randall says I run after men.

LADY UTTERWORD. You could shave off your mustache; I can’t just take off my nose. My entire life gets complicated with people falling in love with me. And then Randall claims I chase after men.

RANDALL. I—

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes you do: you said it just now. Why can't you think of something else than women? Napoleon was quite right when he said that women are the occupation of the idle man. Well, if ever there was an idle man on earth, his name is Randall Utterword.

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, you do: you just said it. Why can't you think of something other than women? Napoleon was totally right when he said that women are the pastime of lazy men. Well, if there’s ever been a lazy man on earth, it’s Randall Utterword.

RANDALL. Ariad—

LADY UTTERWORD [overwhelming him with a torrent of words]. Oh yes you are: it's no use denying it. What have you ever done? What good are you? You are as much trouble in the house as a child of three. You couldn't live without your valet.

LADY UTTERWORD [overwhelming him with a flood of words]. Oh yes you are: there's no point in denying it. What have you ever accomplished? What value do you have? You’re just as much trouble in the house as a three-year-old. You wouldn't survive without your butler.

RANDALL. This is—

LADY UTTERWORD. Laziness! You are laziness incarnate. You are selfishness itself. You are the most uninteresting man on earth. You can't even gossip about anything but yourself and your grievances and your ailments and the people who have offended you. [Turning to Hector]. Do you know what they call him, Hector?

LADY UTTERWORD. Laziness! You are the very definition of laziness. You are pure selfishness. You are the most boring man on the planet. You can’t even talk about anything except yourself, your problems, your health issues, and the people who’ve upset you. [Turning to Hector]. Do you know what they call him, Hector?

HECTOR [speaking together] { Please don't tell me.

HECTOR [speaking together] { Please don’t tell me.

RANDALL { I'll not stand it—

RANDALL { I won't put up with it—

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the Rotter: that is his name in good society.

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the Rotter: that’s what people call him in polite circles.

RANDALL [shouting]. I'll not bear it, I tell you. Will you listen to me, you infernal—[he chokes].

RANDALL [shouting]. I won’t put up with this, I’m telling you. Will you hear me, you damn—[he chokes].

LADY UTTERWORD. Well: go on. What were you going to call me? An infernal what? Which unpleasant animal is it to be this time?

LADY UTTERWORD. Well, go ahead. What were you going to call me? An awful what? Which unpleasant creature is it going to be this time?

RANDALL [foaming]. There is no animal in the world so hateful as a woman can be. You are a maddening devil. Hushabye, you will not believe me when I tell you that I have loved this demon all my life; but God knows I have paid for it [he sits down in the draughtsman's chair, weeping].

RANDALL [foaming]. There's no creature on earth as hateful as a woman can be. You’re an infuriating devil. Hushabye, you won't believe me when I say I've loved this demon my whole life; but God knows I've paid for it [he sits down in the draughtsman's chair, weeping].

LADY UTTERWORD [standing over him with triumphant contempt]. Cry-baby!

LADY UTTERWORD [looking down at him with victorious disdain]. Cry-baby!

HECTOR [gravely, coming to him]. My friend, the Shotover sisters have two strange powers over men. They can make them love; and they can make them cry. Thank your stars that you are not married to one of them.

HECTOR [seriously, approaching him]. My friend, the Shotover sisters have two unusual abilities when it comes to men. They can make them fall in love; and they can make them weep. Count your lucky stars that you’re not married to one of them.

LADY UTTERWORD [haughtily]. And pray, Hector—

LADY UTTERWORD [haughtily]. And please, Hector—

HECTOR [suddenly catching her round the shoulders: swinging her right round him and away from Randall: and gripping her throat with the other hand]. Ariadne, if you attempt to start on me, I'll choke you: do you hear? The cat-and-mouse game with the other sex is a good game; but I can play your head off at it. [He throws her, not at all gently, into the big chair, and proceeds, less fiercely but firmly]. It is true that Napoleon said that woman is the occupation of the idle man. But he added that she is the relaxation of the warrior. Well, I am the warrior. So take care.

HECTOR [suddenly grabbing her around the shoulders, spinning her away from Randall, and gripping her throat with his other hand]. Ariadne, if you try to start anything with me, I’ll choke you, got it? The cat-and-mouse game with the opposite sex can be fun, but I can outsmart you at it. [He pushes her, not gently, into the big chair and continues, less harshly but firmly]. It’s true that Napoleon said women are the pastime of idle men. But he also said they’re the relaxation for warriors. Well, I’m the warrior. So watch yourself.

LADY UTTERWORD [not in the least put out, and rather pleased by his violence]. My dear Hector, I have only done what you asked me to do.

LADY UTTERWORD [not at all bothered and somewhat pleased by his aggression]. My dear Hector, I’ve just done what you told me to do.

HECTOR. How do you make that out, pray?

HECTOR. How do you figure that out, please?

LADY UTTERWORD. You called me in to manage Randall, didn't you? You said you couldn't manage him yourself.

LADY UTTERWORD. You brought me in to handle Randall, right? You mentioned you couldn’t deal with him on your own.

HECTOR. Well, what if I did? I did not ask you to drive the man mad.

HECTOR. So what if I did? I didn't ask you to make him lose his mind.

LADY UTTERWORD. He isn't mad. That's the way to manage him. If you were a mother, you'd understand.

LADY UTTERWORD. He’s not crazy. That’s how you handle him. If you were a mother, you’d get it.

HECTOR. Mother! What are you up to now?

HECTOR. Mom! What are you doing now?

LADY UTTERWORD. It's quite simple. When the children got nerves and were naughty, I smacked them just enough to give them a good cry and a healthy nervous shock. They went to sleep and were quite good afterwards. Well, I can't smack Randall: he is too big; so when he gets nerves and is naughty, I just rag him till he cries. He will be all right now. Look: he is half asleep already [which is quite true].

LADY UTTERWORD. It's actually quite simple. When the kids were acting up and being naughty, I would smack them just enough to make them cry and give them a good, healthy shock. They would fall asleep and behave after that. Well, I can’t smack Randall; he’s too big for that, so when he acts up, I just tease him until he cries. He’ll be fine now. Look: he’s almost asleep already [which is totally true].

RANDALL [waking up indignantly]. I'm not. You are most cruel, Ariadne. [Sentimentally]. But I suppose I must forgive you, as usual [he checks himself in the act of yawning].

RANDALL [waking up indignantly]. I'm not. You're really cruel, Ariadne. [Sentimentally]. But I guess I have to forgive you, like always [he catches himself yawning].

LADY UTTERWORD [to Hector]. Is the explanation satisfactory, dread warrior?

LADY UTTERWORD [to Hector]. Is the explanation satisfactory, fearsome warrior?

HECTOR. Some day I shall kill you, if you go too far. I thought you were a fool.

HECTOR. One day I’ll end you if you push me too far. I thought you were an idiot.

LADY UTTERWORD [laughing]. Everybody does, at first. But I am not such a fool as I look. [She rises complacently]. Now, Randall, go to bed. You will be a good boy in the morning.

LADY UTTERWORD [laughing]. Everyone does, at first. But I'm not as foolish as I seem. [She stands up confidently]. Now, Randall, go to bed. You’ll be a good boy in the morning.

RANDALL [only very faintly rebellious]. I'll go to bed when I like. It isn't ten yet.

RANDALL [only very faintly rebellious]. I'll go to bed whenever I want. It isn't ten o'clock yet.

LADY UTTERWORD. It is long past ten. See that he goes to bed at once, Hector. [She goes into the garden].

LADY UTTERWORD. It's well past ten. Make sure he goes to bed right away, Hector. [She goes into the garden].

HECTOR. Is there any slavery on earth viler than this slavery of men to women?

HECTOR. Is there any kind of slavery on earth worse than this slavery of men to women?

RANDALL [rising resolutely]. I'll not speak to her tomorrow. I'll not speak to her for another week. I'll give her such a lesson. I'll go straight to bed without bidding her good-night. [He makes for the door leading to the hall].

RANDALL [standing up determinedly]. I won’t talk to her tomorrow. I won’t talk to her for another week. I’ll teach her a lesson. I’m going straight to bed without saying goodnight to her. [He heads for the door leading to the hall].

HECTOR. You are under a spell, man. Old Shotover sold himself to the devil in Zanzibar. The devil gave him a black witch for a wife; and these two demon daughters are their mystical progeny. I am tied to Hesione's apron-string; but I'm her husband; and if I did go stark staring mad about her, at least we became man and wife. But why should you let yourself be dragged about and beaten by Ariadne as a toy donkey is dragged about and beaten by a child? What do you get by it? Are you her lover?

HECTOR. You're under a spell, man. Old Shotover sold his soul to the devil in Zanzibar. The devil gave him a black witch for a wife, and these two demon daughters are their mystical offspring. I'm tied to Hesione's apron strings; but I'm her husband, and even if I went completely crazy about her, at least we became man and wife. But why would you let yourself be dragged around and beaten by Ariadne like a toy donkey dragged around and beaten by a child? What do you get out of it? Are you her lover?

RANDALL. You must not misunderstand me. In a higher sense—in a Platonic sense—

RANDALL. You mustn't get me wrong. In a deeper sense—in a Platonic sense—

HECTOR. Psha! Platonic sense! She makes you her servant; and when pay-day comes round, she bilks you: that is what you mean.

HECTOR. Ugh! Platonic relationship! She treats you like her servant, and when it's time to settle up, she cheats you: that's what you mean.

RANDALL [feebly]. Well, if I don't mind, I don't see what business it is of yours. Besides, I tell you I am going to punish her. You shall see: I know how to deal with women. I'm really very sleepy. Say good-night to Mrs Hushabye for me, will you, like a good chap. Good-night. [He hurries out].

RANDALL [feebly]. Well, if it doesn't bother me, I don't see why it's your concern. Besides, I’m telling you I’m going to punish her. You’ll see; I know how to handle women. I'm really very tired. Please say good-night to Mrs. Hushabye for me, would you? Good-night. [He rushes out].

HECTOR. Poor wretch! Oh women! women! women! [He lifts his fists in invocation to heaven]. Fall. Fall and crush. [He goes out into the garden].

HECTOR. Poor soul! Oh women! women! women! [He raises his fists to the sky]. Come down. Come down and crush. [He exits into the garden].

ACT III

In the garden, Hector, as he comes out through the glass door of the poop, finds Lady Utterword lying voluptuously in the hammock on the east side of the flagstaff, in the circle of light cast by the electric arc, which is like a moon in its opal globe. Beneath the head of the hammock, a campstool. On the other side of the flagstaff, on the long garden seat, Captain Shotover is asleep, with Ellie beside him, leaning affectionately against him on his right hand. On his left is a deck chair. Behind them in the gloom, Hesione is strolling about with Mangan. It is a fine still night, moonless.

In the garden, Hector comes out through the glass door of the shed and finds Lady Utterword lounging indulgently in the hammock on the east side of the flagpole, surrounded by the light from the electric arc, which resembles a moon in its opal globe. Underneath the hammock's head, there's a campstool. On the other side of the flagpole, on the long garden bench, Captain Shotover is asleep, with Ellie beside him, leaning affectionately against his right arm. On his left is a deck chair. In the shadows behind them, Hesione is wandering around with Mangan. It's a lovely, calm night, without a moon.

LADY UTTERWORD. What a lovely night! It seems made for us.

LADY UTTERWORD. What a beautiful night! It feels perfect for us.

HECTOR. The night takes no interest in us. What are we to the night? [He sits down moodily in the deck chair].

HECTOR. The night doesn't care about us. What are we to the night? [He sits down glumly in the deck chair].

ELLIE [dreamily, nestling against the captain]. Its beauty soaks into my nerves. In the night there is peace for the old and hope for the young.

ELLIE [dreamily, cuddling against the captain]. Its beauty seeps into my soul. At night, there's peace for the old and hope for the young.

HECTOR. Is that remark your own?

HECTOR. Is that comment your own?

ELLIE. No. Only the last thing the captain said before he went to sleep.

ELLIE. No. Just the last thing the captain said before he fell asleep.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I'm not asleep.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I’m awake.

HECTOR. Randall is. Also Mr Mazzini Dunn. Mangan, too, probably.

HECTOR. Randall is. Also Mr. Mazzini Dunn. Mangan, too, probably.

MANGAN. No.

MANGAN. Nah.

HECTOR. Oh, you are there. I thought Hesione would have sent you to bed by this time.

HECTOR. Oh, you’re here. I thought Hesione would have sent you to bed by now.

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 a presentiment that he is going to die. I never met a man so greedy for sympathy.

MRS HUSHABYE [coming to the back of the garden seat, into the light, with Mangan]. I think I will. He keeps saying he has a feeling that he’s going to die. I've never met anyone so desperate for sympathy.

MANGAN [plaintively]. But I have a presentiment. I really have. And you wouldn't listen.

MANGAN [sadly]. But I have a feeling. I really do. And you wouldn’t listen.

MRS HUSHABYE. I was listening for something else. There was a sort of splendid drumming in the sky. Did none of you hear it? It came from a distance and then died away.

MRS HUSHABYE. I was listening for something different. There was this amazing drumming in the sky. Didn’t any of you hear it? It came from far away and then faded out.

MANGAN. I tell you it was a train.

MANGAN. I'm telling you, it was a train.

MRS HUSHABYE. And I tell you, Alf, there is no train at this hour. The last is nine forty-five.

MRS HUSHABYE. And I'm telling you, Alf, there’s no train at this time. The last one is at nine forty-five.

MANGAN. But a goods train.

MANGAN. But a freight train.

MRS HUSHABYE. Not on our little line. They tack a truck on to the passenger train. What can it have been, Hector?

MRS HUSHABYE. Not on our little line. They attach a cargo car to the passenger train. What could it have been, Hector?

HECTOR. Heaven's threatening growl of disgust at us useless futile creatures. [Fiercely]. I tell you, one of two things must happen. Either out of that darkness some new creation will come to supplant us as we have supplanted the animals, or the heavens will fall in thunder and destroy us.

HECTOR. Heaven's angry growl of disgust at us useless, pointless creatures. [Fiercely]. I’m telling you, one of two things has to happen. Either something new will emerge from that darkness to replace us, just like we replaced the animals, or the heavens will crash down in thunder and wipe us out.

LADY UTTERWORD [in a cool instructive manner, wallowing comfortably in her hammock]. We have not supplanted the animals, Hector. Why do you ask heaven to destroy this house, which could be made quite comfortable if Hesione had any notion of how to live? Don't you know what is wrong with it?

LADY UTTERWORD [in a calm, instructive way, lounging comfortably in her hammock]. We haven’t replaced the animals, Hector. Why do you ask heaven to destroy this house, which could be pretty cozy if Hesione understood how to live? Don’t you see what’s wrong with it?

HECTOR. We are wrong with it. There is no sense in us. We are useless, dangerous, and ought to be abolished.

HECTOR. We're in the wrong here. We make no sense. We're useless, dangerous, and should be eliminated.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense! Hastings told me the very first day he came here, nearly twenty-four years ago, what is wrong with the house.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense! Hastings told me on the very first day he arrived here, nearly twenty-four years ago, what was wrong with the house.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What! The numskull said there was something wrong with my house!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What! That idiot said there was something wrong with my house!

LADY UTTERWORD. I said Hastings said it; and he is not in the least a numskull.

LADY UTTERWORD. I said Hastings said it, and he's definitely not an idiot.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What's wrong with my house?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What's wrong with my place?

LADY UTTERWORD. Just what is wrong with a ship, papa. Wasn't it clever of Hastings to see that?

LADY UTTERWORD. What’s wrong with a ship, Dad? Wasn’t it smart of Hastings to notice that?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The man's a fool. There's nothing wrong with a ship.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The guy's an idiot. There's nothing wrong with the ship.

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, there is.

Yes, there is.

MRS HUSHABYE. But what is it? Don't be aggravating, Addy.

MRS HUSHABYE. But what is it? Don't be annoying, Addy.

LADY UTTERWORD. Guess.

LADY UTTERWORD. Take a guess.

HECTOR. Demons. Daughters of the witch of Zanzibar. Demons.

HECTOR. Demons. Daughters of the witch from Zanzibar. Demons.

LADY UTTERWORD. Not a bit. I assure you, all this house needs to make it a sensible, healthy, pleasant house, with good appetites and sound sleep in it, is horses.

LADY UTTERWORD. Not at all. I guarantee that all this house needs to become a sensible, healthy, pleasant place, with good appetites and restful sleep, is horses.

MRS HUSHABYE. Horses! What rubbish!

MRS HUSHABYE. Horses! What nonsense!

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes: horses. Why have we never been able to let this house? Because there are no proper stables. Go anywhere in England where there are natural, wholesome, contented, and really nice English people; and what do you always find? That the stables are the real centre of the household; and that if any visitor wants to play the piano the whole room has to be upset before it can be opened, there are so many things piled on it. I never lived until I learned to ride; and I shall never ride really well because I didn't begin as a child. There are only two classes in good society in England: the equestrian classes and the neurotic classes. It isn't mere convention: everybody can see that the people who hunt are the right people and the people who don't are the wrong ones.

LADY UTTERWORD. Yes: horses. Why have we never been able to rent this house? Because there are no proper stables. Go anywhere in England where there are natural, wholesome, contented, and really nice English people; and what do you always find? That the stables are the real heart of the household; and that if any visitor wants to play the piano, the entire room has to be rearranged before it can be opened, since there are so many things piled on it. I never truly lived until I learned to ride; and I’ll never ride really well because I didn’t start as a child. There are only two classes in good society in England: the horse-riding class and the anxious class. It’s not just convention: everyone can see that the people who hunt are the right ones and the people who don’t are the wrong ones.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There is some truth in this. My ship made a man of me; and a ship is the horse of the sea.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. There's some truth to that. My ship turned me into a man; and a ship is like the horse of the sea.

LADY UTTERWORD. Exactly how Hastings explained your being a gentleman.

LADY UTTERWORD. That's exactly how Hastings described you as a gentleman.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Not bad for a numskull. Bring the man here with you next time: I must talk to him.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Not bad for a fool. Bring him here with you next time; I need to talk to him.

LADY UTTERWORD. Why is Randall such an obvious rotter? He is well bred; he has been at a public school and a university; he has been in the Foreign Office; he knows the best people and has lived all his life among them. Why is he so unsatisfactory, so contemptible? Why can't he get a valet to stay with him longer than a few months? Just because he is too lazy and pleasure-loving to hunt and shoot. He strums the piano, and sketches, and runs after married women, and reads literary books and poems. He actually plays the flute; but I never let him bring it into my house. If he would only—[she is interrupted by the melancholy strains of a flute coming from an open window above. She raises herself indignantly in the hammock]. Randall, you have not gone to bed. Have you been listening? [The flute replies pertly]. How vulgar! Go to bed instantly, Randall: how dare you? [The window is slammed down. She subsides]. How can anyone care for such a creature!

LADY UTTERWORD. Why is Randall such a total jerk? He comes from a good background; he went to a public school and a university; he's worked in the Foreign Office; he knows all the right people and has spent his whole life around them. Why is he so disappointing, so despicable? Why can't he keep a valet for more than a few months? It's just because he's too lazy and loves leisure too much to go hunting or shooting. He plays the piano, sketches, chases after married women, reads literary books and poetry. He even plays the flute; but I never let him bring it into my house. If only he would—[she is interrupted by the sad sound of a flute coming from an open window above. She sits up indignantly in the hammock]. Randall, you haven't gone to bed. Have you been eavesdropping? [The flute replies snappily]. How tacky! Go to bed right now, Randall: how dare you? [The window is slammed shut. She settles back down]. How can anyone find such a person appealing!

MRS HUSHABYE. Addy: do you think Ellie ought to marry poor Alfred merely for his money?

MRS HUSHABYE. Addy: do you really think Ellie should marry poor Alfred just for his money?

MANGAN [much alarmed]. What's that? Mrs Hushabye, are my affairs to be discussed like this before everybody?

MANGAN [very alarmed]. What’s going on? Mrs. Hushabye, are we really going to talk about my business like this in front of everyone?

LADY UTTERWORD. I don't think Randall is listening now.

LADY UTTERWORD. I don't think Randall is paying attention right now.

MANGAN. Everybody is listening. It isn't right.

MANGAN. Everyone is listening. This isn't right.

MRS HUSHABYE. But in the dark, what does it matter? Ellie doesn't mind. Do you, Ellie?

MRS HUSHABYE. But in the dark, what difference does it make? Ellie doesn't care. Do you, Ellie?

ELLIE. Not in the least. What is your opinion, Lady Utterword? You have so much good sense.

ELLIE. Not at all. What do you think, Lady Utterword? You have such good judgment.

MANGAN. But it isn't right. It—[Mrs Hushabye puts her hand on his mouth]. Oh, very well.

MANGAN. But that’s not right. It—[Mrs. Hushabye puts her hand on his mouth]. Oh, fine.

LADY UTTERWORD. How much money have you, Mr. Mangan?

LADY UTTERWORD. How much money do you have, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN. Really—No: I can't stand this.

MANGAN. Seriously—No: I can't take this.

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense, Mr Mangan! It all turns on your income, doesn't it?

LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense, Mr. Mangan! It all depends on your income, doesn't it?

MANGAN. Well, if you come to that, how much money has she?

MANGAN. Well, if we're talking about that, how much money does she have?

ELLIE. None.

ELLIE. Nothing.

LADY UTTERWORD. You are answered, Mr Mangan. And now, as you have made Miss Dunn throw her cards on the table, you cannot refuse to show your own.

LADY UTTERWORD. You have your answer, Mr. Mangan. Now that you’ve forced Miss Dunn to lay her cards on the table, you can’t refuse to show yours.

MRS HUSHABYE. Come, Alf! out with it! How much?

MRS HUSHABYE. Come on, Alf! Spill it! How much?

MANGAN [baited out of all prudence]. Well, if you want to know, I have no money and never had any.

MANGAN [out of all discretion]. Well, if you really want to know, I have no money and never have.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, you mustn't tell naughty stories.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, you shouldn't tell mischievous stories.

MANGAN. I'm not telling you stories. I'm telling you the raw truth.

MANGAN. I'm not sharing stories. I'm sharing the plain truth.

LADY UTTERWORD. Then what do you live on, Mr Mangan?

LADY UTTERWORD. So, what do you survive on, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN. Travelling expenses. And a trifle of commission.

MANGAN. Travel expenses. And a small commission.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What more have any of us but travelling expenses for our life's journey?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What more do any of us have than the travel costs for our life’s journey?

MRS HUSHABYE. But you have factories and capital and things?

MRS HUSHABYE. But you have factories and money and stuff?

MANGAN. People think I have. People think I'm an industrial Napoleon. That's why Miss Ellie wants to marry me. But I tell you I have nothing.

MANGAN. People think I have it all. They think I'm some kind of industrial genius. That's why Miss Ellie wants to marry me. But I swear I have nothing.

ELLIE. Do you mean that the factories are like Marcus's tigers? That they don't exist?

ELLIE. Are you saying that the factories are like Marcus's tigers? That they aren't real?

MANGAN. They exist all right enough. But they're not mine. They belong to syndicates and shareholders and all sorts of lazy good-for-nothing capitalists. I get money from such people to start the factories. I find people like Miss Dunn's father to work them, and keep a tight hand so as to make them pay. Of course I make them keep me going pretty well; but it's a dog's life; and I don't own anything.

MANGAN. They definitely exist. But they’re not mine. They belong to syndicates and shareholders and all kinds of lazy, useless capitalists. I get money from those people to start the factories. I find people like Miss Dunn's father to run them, and I keep a tight grip to make sure they’re profitable. Of course, I make sure they keep me comfortable enough; but it’s a tough life, and I don't own anything.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, Alfred, you are making a poor mouth of it to get out of marrying Ellie.

MRS HUSHABYE. Alfred, Alfred, you're making a sad face to avoid marrying Ellie.

MANGAN. I'm telling the truth about my money for the first time in my life; and it's the first time my word has ever been doubted.

MANGAN. I'm finally being honest about my money for the first time ever; and it's the first time anyone has ever questioned my word.

LADY UTTERWORD. How sad! Why don't you go in for politics, Mr Mangan?

LADY UTTERWORD. How unfortunate! Why don't you get into politics, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN. Go in for politics! Where have you been living? I am in politics.

MANGAN. Get into politics! Where have you been living? I'm involved in politics.

LADY UTTERWORD. I'm sure I beg your pardon. I never heard of you.

LADY UTTERWORD. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met before.

MANGAN. Let me tell you, Lady Utterword, that the Prime Minister of this country asked me to join the Government without even going through the nonsense of an election, as the dictator of a great public department.

MANGAN. Let me tell you, Lady Utterword, that the Prime Minister of this country asked me to join the Government without even having to deal with the hassle of an election, as the head of a major public department.

LADY UTTERWORD. As a Conservative or a Liberal?

MANGAN. No such nonsense. As a practical business man. [They all burst out laughing]. What are you all laughing at?

MANGAN. That's ridiculous. As a practical businessman. [They all burst out laughing]. What are you all laughing at?

MRS HUSHARYE. Oh, Alfred, Alfred!

Mrs. Husharye. Oh, Alfred!

ELLIE. You! who have to get my father to do everything for you!

ELLIE. You! You have to make my dad do everything for you!

MRS HUSHABYE. You! who are afraid of your own workmen!

MRS HUSHABYE. You! who are scared of your own workers!

HECTOR. You! with whom three women have been playing cat and mouse all the evening!

HECTOR. You! The one three women have been playing games with all night!

LADY UTTERWORD. You must have given an immense sum to the party funds, Mr Mangan.

LADY UTTERWORD. You must have contributed a huge amount to the party funds, Mr. Mangan.

MANGAN. Not a penny out of my own pocket. The syndicate found the money: they knew how useful I should be to them in the Government.

MANGAN. Not a dime from my own wallet. The syndicate covered the cost: they understood how valuable I would be to them in the government.

LADY UTTERWORD. This is most interesting and unexpected, Mr Mangan. And what have your administrative achievements been, so far?

LADY UTTERWORD. This is really interesting and surprising, Mr. Mangan. So, what have you accomplished in your administration so far?

MANGAN. Achievements? Well, I don't know what you call achievements; but I've jolly well put a stop to the games of the other fellows in the other departments. Every man of them thought he was going to save the country all by himself, and do me out of the credit and out of my chance of a title. I took good care that if they wouldn't let me do it they shouldn't do it themselves either. I may not know anything about my own machinery; but I know how to stick a ramrod into the other fellow's. And now they all look the biggest fools going.

MANGAN. Achievements? I’m not sure what you’d call achievements; but I’ve definitely put an end to the antics of the guys in the other departments. Each of them thought they could save the country all on their own and steal the credit from me, along with my chance at a title. I made sure that if they wouldn’t let me do it, they couldn’t do it themselves either. I might not know anything about my own equipment; but I know how to dig into the other guy's. And now they all look like complete fools.

HECTOR. And in heaven's name, what do you look like?

HECTOR. And for heaven's sake, what do you look like?

MANGAN. I look like the fellow that was too clever for all the others, don't I? If that isn't a triumph of practical business, what is?

MANGAN. I look like the guy who outsmarted everyone else, right? If that’s not a win in practical business, then what is?

HECTOR. Is this England, or is it a madhouse?

HECTOR. Is this England, or is it a crazy place?

LADY UTTERWORD. Do you expect to save the country, Mr Mangan?

LADY UTTERWORD. Do you really think you can save the country, Mr. Mangan?

MANGAN. Well, who else will? Will your Mr Randall save it?

MANGAN. Well, who else is going to? Is your Mr. Randall going to save it?

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the rotter! Certainly not.

LADY UTTERWORD. Randall the jerk! Absolutely not.

MANGAN. Will your brother-in-law save it with his moustache and his fine talk?

MANGAN. Is your brother-in-law going to save it with his moustache and his smooth talk?

HECTOR. Yes, if they will let me.

HECTOR. Yeah, if they’ll allow me.

MANGAN [sneering]. Ah! Will they let you?

MANGAN [sneering]. Oh really! Do you think they'll actually let you?

HECTOR. No. They prefer you.

HECTOR. No. They like you more.

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 else is there but me?

MANGAN. Alright then, since you're in a place where I'm valued and you're not, you should probably be nice to me, don't you think? Who else do you have but me?

LADY UTTERWORD. There is Hastings. Get rid of your ridiculous sham democracy; and give Hastings the necessary powers, and a good supply of bamboo to bring the British native to his senses: he will save the country with the greatest ease.

LADY UTTERWORD. There’s Hastings. Get rid of your silly fake democracy and give Hastings the powers he needs, along with plenty of bamboo to knock some sense into the British natives: he’ll easily save the country.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It had better be lost. Any fool can govern with a stick in his hand. I could govern that way. It is not God's way. The man is a numskull.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s probably better off lost. Any idiot can rule with a stick in their hand. I could do it that way. But that’s not how God would do it. That guy is stupid.

LADY UTTERWORD. The man is worth all of you rolled into one. What do you say, Miss Dunn?

LADY UTTERWORD. That man is worth all of you combined. What do you think, Miss Dunn?

ELLIE. I think my father would do very well if people did not put upon him and cheat him and despise him because he is so good.

ELLIE. I think my dad would be really successful if people didn’t take advantage of him, cheat him, and look down on him just because he's so nice.

MANGAN [contemptuously]. I think I see Mazzini Dunn getting into parliament or pushing his way into the Government. We've not come to that yet, thank God! What do you say, Mrs Hushabye?

MANGAN [contemptuously]. I think I see Mazzini Dunn getting into parliament or forcing his way into the Government. Thank God we haven't reached that point yet! What do you think, Mrs. Hushabye?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, I say it matters very little which of you governs the country so long as we govern you.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, I think it doesn't really matter who runs the country as long as we control you.

HECTOR. We? Who is we, pray?

HECTOR. We? Who do you mean by we?

MRS HUSHABYE. The devil's granddaughters, dear. The lovely women.

MRS HUSHABYE. The devil's granddaughters, dear. The beautiful women.

HECTOR [raising his hands as before]. Fall, I say, and deliver us from the lures of Satan!

HECTOR [raising his hands as before]. Fall, I say, and free us from the temptations of Satan!

ELLIE. There seems to be nothing real in the world except my father and Shakespeare. Marcus's tigers are false; Mr Mangan's millions are false; there is nothing really strong and true about Hesione but her beautiful black hair; and Lady Utterword's is too pretty to be real. The one thing that was left to me was the Captain's seventh degree of concentration; and that turns out to be—

ELLIE. It feels like there's nothing real in the world except for my dad and Shakespeare. Marcus's tigers are fake; Mr. Mangan's millions are fake; there's really nothing strong and genuine about Hesione except for her gorgeous black hair; and Lady Utterword's is too beautiful to be real. The only thing that was left to me was the Captain's seventh degree of concentration; and that turns out to be—

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Rum.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Whiskey.

LADY UTTERWORD [placidly]. A good deal of my hair is quite genuine. The Duchess of Dithering offered me fifty guineas for this [touching her forehead] under the impression that it was a transformation; but it is all natural except the color.

LADY UTTERWORD [calmly]. A lot of my hair is completely real. The Duchess of Dithering offered me fifty guineas for this [touching her forehead] thinking it was a wig; but it’s all natural except for the color.

MANGAN [wildly]. Look here: I'm going to take off all my clothes [he begins tearing off his coat].

MANGAN [wildly]. Listen up: I’m going to strip off all my clothes [he starts ripping off his coat].

LADY UTTERWORD. [in consternation] { Mr. Mangan!

LADY UTTERWORD. [in shock] { Mr. Mangan!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER { What's that?

What's that?

HECTOR. { Ha! Ha! Do. Do.

ELLIE { Please don't.

MRS HUSHABYE [catching his arm and stopping him]. Alfred, for shame! Are you mad?

MRS HUSHABYE [catching his arm and stopping him]. Alfred, seriously! Are you crazy?

MANGAN. Shame! What shame is there in this house? Let's all strip stark naked. We may as well do the thing thoroughly when we're about it. We've stripped ourselves morally naked: well, let us strip ourselves physically naked as well, and see how we like it. I tell you I can't bear this. I was brought up to be respectable. I don't mind the women dyeing their hair and the men drinking: it's human nature. But it's not human nature to tell everybody about it. Every time one of you opens your mouth I go like this [he cowers as if to avoid a missile], afraid of what will come next. How are we to have any self-respect if we don't keep it up that we're better than we really are?

MANGAN. What a shame! What shame is there in this house? Let’s all just get completely naked. If we’re going to do it, we might as well go all the way. We’ve already stripped ourselves morally; now let’s strip ourselves physically and see how that feels. I can’t stand this. I was raised to be respectable. I don’t care if the women dye their hair and the men drink; that’s just human nature. But it’s not human nature to broadcast it to everyone. Every time one of you speaks, I flinch [he cowers as if to avoid a missile], worried about what’s coming next. How can we have any self-respect if we don’t maintain the illusion that we’re better than we really are?

LADY UTTERWORD. I quite sympathize with you, Mr Mangan. I have been through it all; and I know by experience that men and women are delicate plants and must be cultivated under glass. Our family habit of throwing stones in all directions and letting the air in is not only unbearably rude, but positively dangerous. Still, there is no use catching physical colds as well as moral ones; so please keep your clothes on.

LADY UTTERWORD. I really sympathize with you, Mr. Mangan. I've been through it all, and I know from experience that men and women are sensitive beings and need to be treated with care. Our family tendency to throw stones everywhere and let the air in is not only incredibly rude but also quite risky. Still, there’s no point in catching physical colds along with moral ones, so please keep your clothes on.

MANGAN. I'll do as I like: not what you tell me. Am I a child or a grown man? I won't stand this mothering tyranny. I'll go back to the city, where I'm respected and made much of.

MANGAN. I'll do what I want, not what you say. Am I a kid or an adult? I won't put up with this overbearing nonsense. I'm going back to the city, where I'm respected and appreciated.

MRS HUSHABYE. Goodbye, Alf. Think of us sometimes in the city. Think of Ellie's youth!

MRS HUSHABYE. Goodbye, Alf. Remember us sometimes while you're in the city. Think about Ellie's youth!

ELLIE. Think of Hesione's eyes and hair!

ELLIE. Just imagine Hesione's eyes and hair!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Think of this garden in which you are not a dog barking to keep the truth out!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Imagine this garden where you’re not just a dog barking to keep the truth away!

HECTOR. Think of Lady Utterword's beauty! her good sense! her style!

HECTOR. Just think about Lady Utterword's beauty! Her intelligence! Her flair!

LADY UTTERWORD. Flatterer. Think, Mr. Mangan, whether you can really do any better for yourself elsewhere: that is the essential point, isn't it?

LADY UTTERWORD. Flatterer. Consider, Mr. Mangan, if you can genuinely find a better opportunity for yourself anywhere else: that's the crucial point, right?

MANGAN [surrendering]. All right: all right. I'm done. Have it your own way. Only let me alone. I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels when you all start on me like this. I'll stay. I'll marry her. I'll do anything for a quiet life. Are you satisfied now?

MANGAN [surrendering]. Fine, fine. I’m done. Do it your way. Just leave me alone. I don’t even know which end is up when you all pile on me like this. I’ll stay. I’ll marry her. I’ll do whatever it takes to have some peace. Are you happy now?

ELLIE. No. I never really intended to make you marry me, Mr Mangan. Never in the depths of my soul. I only wanted to feel my strength: to know that you could not escape if I chose to take you.

ELLIE. No. I never really meant to make you marry me, Mr. Mangan. Never in the depths of my soul. I just wanted to feel my power: to know that you couldn't get away if I decided to take you.

MANGAN [indignantly]. What! Do you mean to say you are going to throw me over after my acting so handsome?

MANGAN [indignantly]. What! Are you really saying you're going to ditch me after I did so well?

LADY UTTERWORD. I should not be too hasty, Miss Dunn. You can throw Mr Mangan over at any time up to the last moment. Very few men in his position go bankrupt. You can live very comfortably on his reputation for immense wealth.

LADY UTTERWORD. I shouldn't rush you, Miss Dunn. You can drop Mr. Mangan anytime right up until the last minute. Very few men in his position actually go bankrupt. You can live quite comfortably on his reputation for being immensely wealthy.

ELLIE. I cannot commit bigamy, Lady Utterword.

ELLIE. I can't commit bigamy, Lady Utterword.

MRS HUSHABYE. { Bigamy! Whatever on earth are you talking about, Ellie?

MRS HUSHABYE. { Bigamy! What on earth are you talking about, Ellie?

LADY UTTERWORD [exclaiming altogether] { Bigamy! What do you mean, Miss Dunn?

MANGAN { Bigamy! Do you mean to say you're married already?

MANGAN { Bigamy! Are you saying you're already married?

HECTOR { Bigamy! This is some enigma.

HECTOR { Bigamy! This is some mystery.

ELLIE. Only half an hour ago I became Captain Shotover's white wife.

ELLIE. Just half an hour ago, I became Captain Shotover's white wife.

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie! What nonsense! Where?

MRS HUSHABYE. Ellie! What are you talking about? Where?

ELLIE. In heaven, where all true marriages are made.

ELLIE. In heaven, where all real marriages happen.

LADY UTTERWORD. Really, Miss Dunn! Really, papa!

LADY UTTERWORD. Seriously, Miss Dunn! Seriously, dad!

MANGAN. He told me I was too old! And him a mummy!

MANGAN. He said I was too old! And he's like a mummy!

HECTOR [quoting Shelley].

     "Their altar the grassy earth outspreads
      And their priest the muttering wind."

"Their altar stretches across the grassy ground,  
And their priest is the whispering wind."

ELLIE. Yes: I, Ellie Dunn, give my broken heart and my strong sound soul to its natural captain, my spiritual husband and second father.

ELLIE. Yes: I, Ellie Dunn, give my broken heart and my strong, sound soul to its rightful leader, my spiritual husband and second father.

She draws the captain's arm through hers, and pats his hand. The captain remains fast asleep.

She links her arm with the captain's and gives his hand a gentle pat. The captain stays fast asleep.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, that's very clever of you, pettikins. Very clever. Alfred, you could never have lived up to Ellie. You must be content with a little share of me.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, that’s really smart of you, sweetie. Very smart. Alfred, you could never measure up to Ellie. You just have to be happy with a little piece of me.

MANGAN [snifflng and wiping his eyes]. It isn't kind—[his emotion chokes him].

MANGAN [sniffling and wiping his eyes]. That's not nice—[he struggles with his emotions].

LADY UTTERWORD. You are well out of it, Mr Mangan. Miss Dunn is the most conceited young woman I have met since I came back to England.

LADY UTTERWORD. You're lucky to be out of it, Mr. Mangan. Miss Dunn is the most full of herself young woman I've met since I returned to England.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Ellie isn't conceited. Are you, pettikins?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, Ellie isn't full of herself. Are you, sweetheart?

ELLIE. I know my strength now, Hesione.

MANGAN. Brazen, I call you. Brazen.

MANGAN. I call you out for being bold. Bold.

MRS HUSHABYE. Tut, tut, Alfred: don't be rude. Don't you feel how lovely this marriage night is, made in heaven? Aren't you happy, you and Hector? Open your eyes: Addy and Ellie look beautiful enough to please the most fastidious man: we live and love and have not a care in the world. We women have managed all that for you. Why in the name of common sense do you go on as if you were two miserable wretches?

MRS HUSHABYE. Come on, Alfred: don’t be rude. Can’t you see how wonderful this wedding night is, like it’s made in heaven? Aren’t you happy, you and Hector? Look around: Addy and Ellie look beautiful enough to impress even the pickiest guy. We live, we love, and we have no worries at all. We women have taken care of all that for you. Why on earth do you keep acting like you’re two miserable losers?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I tell you happiness is no good. You can be happy when you are only half alive. I am happier now I am half dead than ever I was in my prime. But there is no blessing on my happiness.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. I'm telling you, happiness isn't worth much. You can feel happy when you're only half alive. I'm happier now that I'm half dead than I ever was in my prime. But there's no blessing on my happiness.

ELLIE [her face lighting up]. Life with a blessing! that is what I want. Now I know the real reason why I couldn't marry Mr Mangan: there would be no blessing on our marriage. There is a blessing on my broken heart. There is a blessing on your beauty, Hesione. There is a blessing on your father's spirit. Even on the lies of Marcus there is a blessing; but on Mr Mangan's money there is none.

ELLIE [her face lighting up]. Life is a blessing! That's what I want. Now I understand the real reason I couldn't marry Mr. Mangan: there would be no blessing on our marriage. There's a blessing on my broken heart. There's a blessing on your beauty, Hesione. There's a blessing on your father's spirit. Even on Marcus's lies, there's a blessing; but there’s no blessing on Mr. Mangan's money.

MANGAN. I don't understand a word of that.

MANGAN. I don't get any of that.

ELLIE. Neither do I. But I know it means something.

ELLIE. I don't either. But I know it means something.

MANGAN. Don't say there was any difficulty about the blessing. I was ready to get a bishop to marry us.

MANGAN. Don't act like there was any issue with the blessing. I was totally prepared to get a bishop to marry us.

MRS HUSHABYE. Isn't he a fool, pettikins?

MRS HUSHABYE. Isn't he an idiot, sweetheart?

HECTOR [fiercely]. Do not scorn the man. We are all fools.

HECTOR [fiercely]. Don't look down on the man. We're all idiots.

Mazzini, in pyjamas and a richly colored silk dressing gown, comes from the house, on Lady Utterword's side.

Mazzini, in pajamas and a brightly colored silk robe, comes out of the house, on Lady Utterword's side.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! here comes the only man who ever resisted me. What's the matter, Mr Dunn? Is the house on fire?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh! here comes the only guy who ever stood up to me. What's wrong, Mr. Dunn? Is the house on fire?

MAZZINI. Oh, no: nothing's the matter: but really it's impossible to go to sleep with such an interesting conversation going on under one's window, and on such a beautiful night too. I just had to come down and join you all. What has it all been about?

MAZZINI. Oh, no, everything's fine; it's just that it’s really hard to fall asleep with such an interesting conversation happening right outside my window, especially on such a lovely night. I just had to come down and join you all. What have you all been talking about?

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, wonderful things, soldier of freedom.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, amazing things, soldier of freedom.

HECTOR. For example, Mangan, as a practical business man, has tried to undress himself and has failed ignominiously; whilst you, as an idealist, have succeeded brilliantly.

HECTOR. For instance, Mangan, as a practical businessman, has tried to take off his clothes and has failed miserably; while you, as an idealist, have succeeded wonderfully.

MAZZINI. I hope you don't mind my being like this, Mrs Hushabye. [He sits down on the campstool].

MAZZINI. I hope you don't mind me being like this, Mrs. Hushabye. [He sits down on the camp stool].

MRS HUSHABYE. On the contrary, I could wish you always like that.

MRS HUSHABYE. Actually, I would prefer if you were always like that.

LADY UTTERWORD. Your daughter's match is off, Mr Dunn. It seems that Mr Mangan, whom we all supposed to be a man of property, owns absolutely nothing.

LADY UTTERWORD. Your daughter's engagement is off, Mr. Dunn. It appears that Mr. Mangan, whom we all thought was wealthy, has nothing to his name.

MAZZINI. Well, of course I knew that, Lady Utterword. But if people believe in him and are always giving him money, whereas they don't believe in me and never give me any, how can I ask poor Ellie to depend on what I can do for her?

MAZZINI. Well, I already knew that, Lady Utterword. But if people believe in him and keep giving him money, while they don't believe in me and never give me anything, how can I ask poor Ellie to rely on what I can do for her?

MANGAN. Don't you run away with this idea that I have nothing. I—

MANGAN. Don’t get the idea that I have nothing to offer. I—

HECTOR. Oh, don't explain. We understand. You have a couple of thousand pounds in exchequer bills, 50,000 shares worth tenpence a dozen, and half a dozen tabloids of cyanide of potassium to poison yourself with when you are found out. That's the reality of your millions.

HECTOR. Oh, no need to explain. We get it. You have a couple of thousand pounds in government bonds, 50,000 shares worth a penny each, and half a dozen tabloids of cyanide to poison yourself with when you get caught. That's the truth about your millions.

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. He is quite honest: the businesses are genuine and perfectly legal.

MAZZINI. Oh no, no, no. He is completely honest: the businesses are legitimate and totally legal.

HECTOR [disgusted]. Yah! Not even a great swindler!

HECTOR [disgusted]. Ugh! Not even a decent con artist!

MANGAN. So you think. But I've been too many for some honest men, for all that.

MANGAN. That's what you think. But I've been too much for some honest people, despite that.

LADY UTTERWORD. There is no pleasing you, Mr Mangan. You are determined to be neither rich nor poor, honest nor dishonest.

LADY UTTERWORD. You can't be satisfied, Mr. Mangan. You're set on being neither rich nor poor, neither honest nor dishonest.

MANGAN. There you go again. Ever since I came into this silly house I have been made to look like a fool, though I'm as good a man in this house as in the city.

MANGAN. There you go again. Ever since I came into this ridiculous house, I’ve been made to look like a fool, even though I’m just as good a man here as I am in the city.

ELLIE [musically]. Yes: this silly house, this strangely happy house, this agonizing house, this house without foundations. I shall call it Heartbreak House.

ELLIE [musically]. Yes: this silly house, this oddly cheerful house, this painful house, this house without a foundation. I will call it Heartbreak House.

MRS HUSHABYE. Stop, Ellie; or I shall howl like an animal.

MRS HUSHABYE. Stop, Ellie; or I’m going to scream like a wild animal.

MANGAN [breaks into a low snivelling]!!!

MANGAN [starts sniffling softly]!!!

MRS HUSAHBYE. There! you have set Alfred off.

MRS HUSAHBYE. There! You've got Alfred going.

ELLIE. I like him best when he is howling.

ELLIE. I like him the most when he's howling.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Silence! [Mangan subsides into silence]. I say, let the heart break in silence.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Quiet! [Mangan falls silent]. I mean, let the heart break quietly.

HECTOR. Do you accept that name for your house?

HECTOR. Do you accept that name for your home?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It is not my house: it is only my kennel.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. It’s not my house; it’s just my kennel.

HECTOR. We have been too long here. We do not live in this house: we haunt it.

HECTOR. We've been here too long. We don't live in this house; we just linger here.

LADY UTTERWORD [heart torn]. It is dreadful to think how you have been here all these years while I have gone round the world. I escaped young; but it has drawn me back. It wants to break my heart too. But it shan't. I have left you and it behind. It was silly of me to come back. I felt sentimental about papa and Hesione and the old place. I felt them calling to me.

LADY UTTERWORD [heart torn]. It's awful to think about how you've been here all these years while I've traveled around the world. I got away when I was young, but it pulled me back. It's trying to break my heart too. But it won’t. I’ve left you and all of this behind. It was foolish of me to return. I felt nostalgic about Dad and Hesione and the old place. I felt like they were calling to me.

MAZZINI. But what a very natural and kindly and charming human feeling, Lady Utterword!

MAZZINI. But what a completely natural, kind, and charming human emotion, Lady Utterword!

LADY UTTERWORD. So I thought, Mr Dunn. But I know now that it was only the last of my influenza. I found that I was not remembered and not wanted.

LADY UTTERWORD. So I thought, Mr. Dunn. But I realize now that it was just the end of my flu. I discovered that I was forgotten and not desired.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You left because you did not want us. Was there no heartbreak in that for your father? You tore yourself up by the roots; and the ground healed up and brought forth fresh plants and forgot you. What right had you to come back and probe old wounds?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. You left because you didn’t want us. Didn’t that break your father’s heart? You ripped yourself away completely; and the ground healed and produced new growth and forgot about you. What right do you have to come back and dig up old wounds?

MRS HUSHABYE. You were a complete stranger to me at first, Addy; but now I feel as if you had never been away.

MRS HUSHABYE. You were a total stranger to me at first, Addy; but now I feel like you’ve never been gone.

LADY UTTERWORD. Thank you, Hesione; but the influenza is quite cured. The place may be Heartbreak House to you, Miss Dunn, and to this gentleman from the city who seems to have so little self-control; but to me it is only a very ill-regulated and rather untidy villa without any stables.

LADY UTTERWORD. Thank you, Hesione; but I've completely recovered from the flu. This may be Heartbreak House to you, Miss Dunn, and to this gentleman from the city who seems to have so little self-control; but to me, it's just a poorly managed and somewhat messy villa without any stables.

HECTOR. Inhabited by—?

HECTOR. Who lives here—?

ELLIE. A crazy old sea captain and a young singer who adores him.

ELLIE. An eccentric old sea captain and a young singer who looks up to him.

MRS HUSHABYE. A sluttish female, trying to stave off a double chin and an elderly spread, vainly wooing a born soldier of freedom.

MRS HUSHABYE. A messy woman, trying to prevent a double chin and an aging body, foolishly pursuing a natural-born fighter for freedom.

MAZZINI. Oh, really, Mrs Hushabye—

MAZZINI. Oh, seriously, Mrs. Hushabye—

MANGAN. A member of His Majesty's Government that everybody sets down as a nincompoop: don't forget him, Lady Utterword.

MANGAN. A member of His Majesty's Government who everyone thinks is an idiot: don't overlook him, Lady Utterword.

LADY UTTERWORD. And a very fascinating gentleman whose chief occupation is to be married to my sister.

LADY UTTERWORD. And a very interesting guy whose main job is being married to my sister.

HECTOR. All heartbroken imbeciles.

HECTOR. All heartbroken fools.

MAZZINI. Oh no. Surely, if I may say so, rather a favorable specimen of what is best in our English culture. You are very charming people, most advanced, unprejudiced, frank, humane, unconventional, democratic, free-thinking, and everything that is delightful to thoughtful people.

MAZZINI. Oh no. If I can say so, you’re actually a great example of what’s best in our English culture. You are truly charming people—very progressive, open-minded, honest, kind, unconventional, democratic, free-thinking, and everything that thoughtful people find delightful.

MRS HUSHABYE. You do us proud, Mazzini.

MRS HUSHABYE. You're making us proud, Mazzini.

MAZZINI. I am not flattering, really. Where else could I feel perfectly at ease in my pyjamas? I sometimes dream that I am in very distinguished society, and suddenly I have nothing on but my pyjamas! Sometimes I haven't even pyjamas. And I always feel overwhelmed with confusion. But here, I don't mind in the least: it seems quite natural.

MAZZINI. I'm not trying to flatter you, truly. Where else could I feel completely comfortable in my pajamas? I sometimes dream that I'm in very fancy company, and suddenly I'm just in my pajamas! Sometimes I don't even have pajamas on. And I always feel totally embarrassed. But here, I don't mind at all: it feels completely normal.

LADY UTTERWORD. An infallible sign that you are now not in really distinguished society, Mr Dunn. If you were in my house, you would feel embarrassed.

LADY UTTERWORD. It's a sure sign that you're not in truly high society now, Mr. Dunn. If you were in my home, you'd feel out of place.

MAZZINI. I shall take particular care to keep out of your house, Lady Utterword.

MAZZINI. I'll make sure to stay out of your house, Lady Utterword.

LADY UTTERWORD. You will be quite wrong, Mr Dunn. I should make you very comfortable; and you would not have the trouble and anxiety of wondering whether you should wear your purple and gold or your green and crimson dressing-gown at dinner. You complicate life instead of simplifying it by doing these ridiculous things.

LADY UTTERWORD. You’re completely mistaken, Mr. Dunn. I would make you very comfortable, and you wouldn’t have to worry about whether to wear your purple and gold or your green and crimson robe at dinner. You’re making life more complicated instead of simplifying it by doing these silly things.

ELLIE. Your house is not Heartbreak House: is it, Lady Utterword?

ELLIE. Your house isn't Heartbreak House, is it, Lady Utterword?

HECTOR. Yet she breaks hearts, easy as her house is. That poor devil upstairs with his flute howls when she twists his heart, just as Mangan howls when my wife twists his.

HECTOR. Yet she breaks hearts as easily as she breaks into her house. That poor guy upstairs with his flute cries out when she twists his heart, just like Mangan cries out when my wife twists his.

LADY UTTERWORD. That is because Randall has nothing to do but have his heart broken. It is a change from having his head shampooed. Catch anyone breaking Hastings' heart!

LADY UTTERWORD. That's because Randall has nothing to do except have his heart broken. It's a switch from getting his head messed with. Good luck finding someone who can break Hastings' heart!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The numskull wins, after all.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The fool wins, after all.

LADY UTTERWORD. I shall go back to my numskull with the greatest satisfaction when I am tired of you all, clever as you are.

LADY UTTERWORD. I'll happily return to my fool of a husband when I'm done with all of you, as smart as you are.

MANGAN [huffily]. I never set up to be clever.

MANGAN [huffily]. I never claimed to be smart.

LADY UTTERWORD. I forgot you, Mr Mangan.

LADY UTTERWORD. I totally forgot about you, Mr. Mangan.

MANGAN. Well, I don't see that quite, either.

MANGAN. Well, I don’t really see it that way, either.

LADY UTTERWORD. You may not be clever, Mr Mangan; but you are successful.

LADY UTTERWORD. You might not be clever, Mr. Mangan, but you are successful.

MANGAN. But I don't want to be regarded merely as a successful man. I have an imagination like anyone else. I have a presentiment.

MANGAN. But I don't want to be seen just as a successful guy. I have an imagination like everyone else. I have a feeling.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, you are impossible, Alfred. Here I am devoting myself to you; and you think of nothing but your ridiculous presentiment. You bore me. Come and talk poetry to me under the stars. [She drags him away into the darkness].

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, you're unbelievable, Alfred. Here I am, dedicating myself to you, and all you can think about is your silly feeling. You're boring me. Come on, let’s talk about poetry under the stars. [She drags him away into the darkness].

MANGAN [tearfully, as he disappears]. Yes: it's all very well to make fun of me; but if you only knew—

MANGAN [tearfully, as he disappears]. Yeah, it’s easy to laugh at me; but if you just knew—

HECTOR [impatiently]. How is all this going to end?

HECTOR [impatiently]. How is all of this going to end?

MAZZINI. It won't end, Mr Hushabye. Life doesn't end: it goes on.

MAZZINI. It doesn't stop, Mr. Hushabye. Life doesn't stop: it keeps going.

ELLIE. Oh, it can't go on forever. I'm always expecting something. I don't know what it is; but life must come to a point sometime.

ELLIE. Oh, it can't last forever. I'm always waiting for something. I don't know what it is, but life has to reach a turning point eventually.

LADY UTTERWORD. The point for a young woman of your age is a baby.

LADY UTTERWORD. The main thing for a young woman like you is having a baby.

HECTOR. Yes, but, damn it, I have the same feeling; and I can't have a baby.

HECTOR. Yeah, but, damn it, I feel the same way; and I can't have a baby.

LADY UTTERWORD. By deputy, Hector.

LADY UTTERWORD. Through Hector.

HECTOR. But I have children. All that is over and done with for me: and yet I too feel that this can't last. We sit here talking, and leave everything to Mangan and to chance and to the devil. Think of the powers of destruction that Mangan and his mutual admiration gang wield! It's madness: it's like giving a torpedo to a badly brought up child to play at earthquakes with.

HECTOR. But I have kids. All of that is behind me now: and yet I sense this can’t continue. We’re sitting here chatting, leaving everything up to Mangan, chance, and fate. Just think about the destructive power that Mangan and his circle of admiration have! It’s insane; it’s like giving a torpedo to a poorly raised kid to mess around with earthquakes.

MAZZINI. I know. I used often to think about that when I was young.

MAZZINI. I know. I used to think about that a lot when I was young.

HECTOR. Think! What's the good of thinking about it? Why didn't you do something?

HECTOR. Think! What's the point in thinking about it? Why didn't you take action?

MAZZINI. But I did. I joined societies and made speeches and wrote pamphlets. That was all I could do. But, you know, though the people in the societies thought they knew more than Mangan, most of them wouldn't have joined if they had known as much. You see they had never had any money to handle or any men to manage. Every year I expected a revolution, or some frightful smash-up: it seemed impossible that we could blunder and muddle on any longer. But nothing happened, except, of course, the usual poverty and crime and drink that we are used to. Nothing ever does happen. It's amazing how well we get along, all things considered.

MAZZINI. But I did. I joined groups, gave speeches, and wrote pamphlets. That was all I could do. But, you know, even though the people in those groups thought they knew more than Mangan, most of them wouldn’t have joined if they had known as much. You see, they had never had any money to manage or any people to lead. Every year I expected a revolution or some major disaster: it seemed impossible that we could keep stumbling along like this. But nothing happened, except, of course, the usual poverty, crime, and drinking that we’re used to. Nothing ever really changes. It’s surprising how well we manage, all things considered.

LADY UTTERWORD. Perhaps somebody cleverer than you and Mr Mangan was at work all the time.

LADY UTTERWORD. Maybe someone smarter than you and Mr. Mangan has been behind this the whole time.

MAZZINI. Perhaps so. Though I was brought up not to believe in anything, I often feel that there is a great deal to be said for the theory of an over-ruling Providence, after all.

MAZZINI. Maybe. Even though I was raised not to believe in anything, I often think there’s a lot to be said for the idea of a higher power in charge, after all.

LADY UTTERWORD. Providence! I meant Hastings.

LADY UTTERWORD. Oh wow! I meant Hastings.

MAZZINI. Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Utterword.

MAZZINI. Oh, I’m sorry, Lady Utterword.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Every drunken skipper trusts to Providence. But one of the ways of Providence with drunken skippers is to run them on the rocks.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Every drunk captain relies on fate. But one way fate deals with drunk captains is to crash them onto the rocks.

MAZZINI. Very true, no doubt, at sea. But in politics, I assure you, they only run into jellyfish. Nothing happens.

MAZZINI. That's definitely true at sea. But in politics, trust me, they just encounter jellyfish. Nothing changes.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. At sea nothing happens to the sea. Nothing happens to the sky. The sun comes up from the east and goes down to the west. The moon grows from a sickle to an arc lamp, and comes later and later until she is lost in the light as other things are lost in the darkness. After the typhoon, the flying-fish glitter in the sunshine like birds. It's amazing how they get along, all things considered. Nothing happens, except something not worth mentioning.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. At sea, nothing changes with the sea. Nothing changes with the sky. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The moon goes from a thin crescent to a full orb, appearing later and later until she disappears in the light, just like other things vanish in the dark. After the storm, the flying fish sparkle in the sunshine like birds. It's incredible how they manage to coexist, all things considered. Nothing happens, except for things not worth mentioning.

ELLIE. What is that, O Captain, O my captain?

ELLIE. What’s that, O Captain, O my captain?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [savagely]. Nothing but the smash of the drunken skipper's ship on the rocks, the splintering of her rotten timbers, the tearing of her rusty plates, the drowning of the crew like rats in a trap.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [savagely]. Just the crash of the drunken captain's ship on the rocks, the breaking of her rotten timbers, the ripping of her rusty plates, the crew drowning like rats in a trap.

ELLIE. Moral: don't take rum.

ELLIE. Moral: don’t drink rum.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [vehemently]. That is a lie, child. Let a man drink ten barrels of rum a day, he is not a drunken skipper until he is a drifting skipper. Whilst he can lay his course and stand on his bridge and steer it, he is no drunkard. It is the man who lies drinking in his bunk and trusts to Providence that I call the drunken skipper, though he drank nothing but the waters of the River Jordan.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [vehemently]. That’s a lie, kid. A man can drink ten barrels of rum a day, but he’s not a drunken captain unless he’s just drifting around. As long as he can navigate his path, stand on his bridge, and steer it, he’s no drunk. It’s the guy who lies in his bunk drinking and relies on fate that I consider the drunken captain, even if he’s only had the waters of the River Jordan.

ELLIE. Splendid! And you haven't had a drop for an hour. You see you don't need it: your own spirit is not dead.

ELLIE. Awesome! And you haven’t had a drink for an hour. See, you don’t need it: your own spirit isn’t dead.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Echoes: nothing but echoes. The last shot was fired years ago.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Echoes: just echoes. The last shot was fired years ago.

HECTOR. And this ship that we are all in? This soul's prison we call England?

HECTOR. And this ship we’re all on? This soul's prison we call England?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The captain is in his bunk, drinking bottled ditch-water; and the crew is gambling in the forecastle. She will strike and sink and split. Do you think the laws of God will be suspended in favor of England because you were born in it?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The captain is in his bunk, drinking bottled ditch-water; and the crew is gambling in the forecastle. She will hit something and sink and break apart. Do you really think the laws of God will be put on hold for England just because you were born there?

HECTOR. Well, I don't mean to be drowned like a rat in a trap. I still have the will to live. What am I to do?

HECTOR. Look, I don't want to be trapped like a rat. I still want to live. What should I do?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Do? Nothing simpler. Learn your business as an Englishman.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Do? Nothing easier. Master your trade like an Englishman.

HECTOR. And what may my business as an Englishman be, pray?

HECTOR. And what is my purpose as an Englishman, I wonder?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Navigation. Learn it and live; or leave it and be damned.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Navigation. Master it and thrive; or ignore it and suffer the consequences.

ELLIE. Quiet, quiet: you'll tire yourself.

ELLIE. Shh, shh: you'll wear yourself out.

MAZZINI. I thought all that once, Captain; but I assure you nothing will happen.

MAZZINI. I used to think that too, Captain; but I promise you, nothing is going to happen.

A dull distant explosion is heard.

A faint explosion is heard in the distance.

HECTOR [starting up]. What was that?

HECTOR [sitting up]. What was that?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Something happening [he blows his whistle]. Breakers ahead!

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Something's going on [he blows his whistle]. Breakers ahead!

The light goes out.

The lights go out.

HECTOR [furiously]. Who put that light out? Who dared put that light out?

HECTOR [furiously]. Who turned that light off? Who had the nerve to turn that light off?

NURSE GUINNESS [running in from the house to the middle of the esplanade]. I did, sir. The police have telephoned to say we'll be summoned if we don't put that light out: it can be seen for miles.

NURSE GUINNESS [running in from the house to the middle of the esplanade]. I did, sir. The police called to say we'll be summoned if we don't turn that light off: it can be seen for miles.

HECTOR. It shall be seen for a hundred miles [he dashes into the house].

HECTOR. It will be visible for a hundred miles [he dashes into the house].

NURSE GUINNESS. The Rectory is nothing but a heap of bricks, they say. Unless we can give the Rector a bed he has nowhere to lay his head this night.

NURSE GUINNESS. They say the Rectory is just a pile of bricks. Unless we can provide the Rector with a bed, he has nowhere to sleep tonight.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The Church is on the rocks, breaking up. I told him it would unless it headed for God's open sea.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The Church is in trouble, falling apart. I warned him it would unless it set sail for God's vast ocean.

NURSE GUINNESS. And you are all to go down to the cellars.

NURSE GUINNESS. And you all need to go down to the cellars.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go there yourself, you and all the crew. Batten down the hatches.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Go there yourselves, you and the entire crew. Secure the hatches.

NURSE GUINNESS. And hide beside the coward I married! I'll go on the roof first. [The lamp lights up again]. There! Mr Hushabye's turned it on again.

NURSE GUINNESS. And hide next to the coward I married! I'll head up to the roof first. [The lamp lights up again]. There! Mr. Hushabye has turned it on again.

THE BURGLAR [hurrying in and appealing to Nurse Guinness]. Here: where's the way to that gravel pit? The boot-boy says there's a cave in the gravel pit. Them cellars is no use. Where's the gravel pit, Captain?

THE BURGLAR [hurrying in and appealing to Nurse Guinness]. Hey, where's the way to that gravel pit? The boot-boy says there's a cave in the gravel pit. Those cellars aren't useful. Where's the gravel pit, Captain?

NURSE GUINNESS. Go straight on past the flagstaff until you fall into it and break your dirty neck. [She pushes him contemptuously towards the flagstaff, and herself goes to the foot of the hammock and waits there, as it were by Ariadne's cradle].

NURSE GUINNESS. Keep going straight past the flagpole until you run into it and break your filthy neck. [She pushes him disdainfully toward the flagpole and then goes to the bottom of the hammock and waits there, as if by Ariadne's cradle].

Another and louder explosion is heard. The burglar stops and stands trembling.

Another louder explosion is heard. The burglar stops and stands trembling.

ELLIE [rising]. That was nearer.

ELLIE [standing up]. That was closer.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The next one will get us. [He rises]. Stand by, all hands, for judgment.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The next one will take us down. [He stands up]. Get ready, everyone, for the verdict.

THE BURGLAR. Oh my Lordy God! [He rushes away frantically past the flagstaff into the gloom].

THE BURGLAR. Oh my God! [He rushes away frantically past the flagpole into the darkness].

MRS HUSHABYE [emerging panting from the darkness]. Who was that running away? [She comes to Ellie]. Did you hear the explosions? And the sound in the sky: it's splendid: it's like an orchestra: it's like Beethoven.

MRS HUSHABYE [emerging breathless from the darkness]. Who was that running away? [She approaches Ellie]. Did you hear the explosions? And the noise in the sky: it’s amazing: it’s like an orchestra: it’s like Beethoven.

ELLIE. By thunder, Hesione: it is Beethoven.

ELLIE. Wow, Hesione: it’s Beethoven!

She and Hesione throw themselves into one another's arms in wild excitement. The light increases.

She and Hesione jump into each other's arms in a burst of excitement. The light brightens.

MAZZINI [anxiously]. The light is getting brighter.

NURSE GUINNESS [looking up at the house]. It's Mr Hushabye turning on all the lights in the house and tearing down the curtains.

NURSE GUINNESS [looking up at the house]. It’s Mr. Hushabye turning on all the lights in the house and ripping down the curtains.

RANDALL [rushing in in his pyjamas, distractedly waving a flute]. Ariadne, my soul, my precious, go down to the cellars: I beg and implore you, go down to the cellars!

RANDALL [rushing in in his pajamas, distractedly waving a flute]. Ariadne, my love, my precious, please go down to the cellars: I beg you, go down to the cellars!

LADY UTTERWORD [quite composed in her hammock]. The governor's wife in the cellars with the servants! Really, Randall!

LADY UTTERWORD [totally relaxed in her hammock]. The governor's wife is down in the cellars with the staff! Seriously, Randall!

RANDALL. But what shall I do if you are killed?

RANDALL. But what am I supposed to do if you get killed?

LADY UTTERWORD. You will probably be killed, too, Randall. Now play your flute to show that you are not afraid; and be good. Play us "Keep the home fires burning."

LADY UTTERWORD. You’ll probably be killed as well, Randall. Now play your flute to prove you’re not scared; and be good. Play us “Keep the home fires burning.”

NURSE GUINNESS [grimly]. THEY'LL keep the home fires burning for us: them up there.

RANDALL [having tried to play]. My lips are trembling. I can't get a sound.

RANDALL [having tried to play]. My lips are shaking. I can't make a sound.

MAZZINI. I hope poor Mangan is safe.

MAZZINI. I hope poor Mangan is okay.

MRS HUSHABYE. He is hiding in the cave in the gravel pit.

MRS HUSHABYE. He's hiding in the cave in the gravel pit.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. My dynamite drew him there. It is the hand of God.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. My dynamite brought him there. It’s the hand of God.

HECTOR [returning from the house and striding across to his former place]. There is not half light enough. We should be blazing to the skies.

HECTOR [coming back from the house and walking over to his old spot]. It’s not bright enough. We should be shining like crazy.

ELLIE [tense with excitement]. Set fire to the house, Marcus.

ELLIE [tense with excitement]. Burn the house down, Marcus.

MRS HUSHABYE. My house! No.

MRS HUSHABYE. My place! No.

HECTOR. I thought of that; but it would not be ready in time.

HECTOR. I thought about that, but it wouldn't be ready in time.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The judgment has come. Courage will not save you; but it will show that your souls are still live.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The time for judgment has arrived. Bravery won't protect you; however, it will show that your spirits are still alive.

MRS HUSHABYE. Sh-sh! Listen: do you hear it now? It's magnificent.

MRS HUSHABYE. Shh! Listen: can you hear it now? It's amazing.

They all turn away from the house and look up, listening.

HECTOR [gravely]. Miss Dunn, you can do no good here. We of this house are only moths flying into the candle. You had better go down to the cellar.

HECTOR [seriously]. Miss Dunn, you can't help here. We in this house are just moths drawn to the flame. It would be best for you to head down to the cellar.

ELLIE [scornfully]. I don't think.

ELLIE [scornfully]. I don’t believe so.

MAZZINI. Ellie, dear, there is no disgrace in going to the cellar. An officer would order his soldiers to take cover. Mr Hushabye is behaving like an amateur. Mangan and the burglar are acting very sensibly; and it is they who will survive.

MAZZINI. Ellie, dear, there’s no shame in going to the cellar. An officer would tell his soldiers to take cover. Mr. Hushabye is acting like a novice. Mangan and the burglar are being very practical; they’re the ones who will make it through.

ELLIE. Let them. I shall behave like an amateur. But why should you run any risk?

ELLIE. Let them. I’ll act like a beginner. But why should you take any risks?

MAZZINI. Think of the risk those poor fellows up there are running!

MAZZINI. Just think about the risk those poor guys up there are taking!

NURSE GUINNESS. Think of them, indeed, the murdering blackguards! What next?

NURSE GUINNESS. Just think about them, those murdering bastards! What's next?

A terrific explosion shakes the earth. They reel back into their seats, or clutch the nearest support. They hear the falling of the shattered glass from the windows.

A huge explosion shakes the ground. They stumble back into their seats, or grab onto the nearest support. They hear the sound of shattered glass falling from the windows.

MAZZINI. Is anyone hurt?

MAZZINI. Is anyone injured?

HECTOR. Where did it fall?

HECTOR. Where did it drop?

NURSE GUINNESS [in hideous triumph]. Right in the gravel pit: I seen it. Serve un right! I seen it [she runs away towards the gravel pit, laughing harshly].

NURSE GUINNESS [in ugly triumph]. Right in the gravel pit: I saw it. Serves them right! I saw it [she runs away towards the gravel pit, laughing harshly].

HECTOR. One husband gone.

HECTOR. One husband is gone.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Thirty pounds of good dynamite wasted.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Thirty pounds of good dynamite gone to waste.

MAZZINI. Oh, poor Mangan!

HECTOR. Are you immortal that you need pity him? Our turn next.

HECTOR. Are you immortal that you need to feel sorry for him? We'll be next.

They wait in silence and intense expectation. Hesione and Ellie hold each other's hand tight.

They wait quietly, filled with anticipation. Hesione and Ellie grip each other's hands tightly.

A distant explosion is heard.

A loud explosion is heard.

MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her grip]. Oh! they have passed us.

MRS HUSHABYE [relaxing her grip]. Oh! they’ve gone past us.

LADY UTTERWORD. The danger is over, Randall. Go to bed.

LADY UTTERWORD. The danger has passed, Randall. Get some sleep.

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Turn in, all hands. The ship is safe. [He sits down and goes asleep].

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. All hands, turn in. The ship is secure. [He sits down and falls asleep].

ELLIE [disappointedly]. Safe!

ELLIE [disappointedly]. All good!

HECTOR [disgustedly]. Yes, safe. And how damnably dull the world has become again suddenly! [he sits down].

HECTOR [disgusted]. Yeah, safe. And how annoyingly dull the world has suddenly become again! [he sits down].

MAZZINI [sitting down]. I was quite wrong, after all. It is we who have survived; and Mangan and the burglar—

MAZZINI [sitting down]. I was totally wrong, after all. It's us who have survived; and Mangan and the burglar—

HECTOR. —the two burglars—

HECTOR. —the two robbers—

LADY UTTERWORD. —the two practical men of business—

LADY UTTERWORD. —the two practical businessmen—

MAZZINI. —both gone. And the poor clergyman will have to get a new house.

MAZZINI. —both are gone. And the poor clergyman will need to find a new house.

MRS HUSHABYE. But what a glorious experience! I hope they'll come again tomorrow night.

MRS HUSHABYE. But what an amazing experience! I hope they'll come back tomorrow night.

ELLIE [radiant at the prospect]. Oh, I hope so.

ELLIE [shining at the thought]. Oh, I really hope so.

Randall at last succeeds in keeping the home fires burning on his flute.

Randall finally manages to keep the home fires burning on his flute.

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HEARTBREAK HOUSE

A FANTASIA IN THE RUSSIAN MANNER ON ENGLISH THEMES

By Bernard Shaw

1913-1916

Contents

HEARTBREAK HOUSE AND HORSEBACK HALL

HEARTBREAK HOUSE

ACT I

ACT II

ACT III