e war because it opens their
prison doors, and sets them in the thrones of power and popularity. For
unless these things are mercilessly exposed they will hide under the
mantle of the ideals on the stage just as they do in real life.

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

June, 1919.

HEARTBREAK HOUSE

ACT I

The hilly country in the middle of the north edge of Sussex, looking
very pleasant on a fine evening at the end of September, is seen through
the windows of a room which has been built so as to resemble the after
part of an old-fashioned high-pooped ship, with a stern gallery; for the
windows are ship built with heavy timbering, and run right across the
room as continuously as the stability of the wall allows. A row
of lockers under the