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LIBRARY



THE SECRET PLACES
OF THE HEART



If Mr. WELLS has also written the
following novels:

LOVE AND ME. LEWISHAM

KIPPS

MR. POLLY

THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

ANN VERONICA

TONO BUNGAY

MARRIAGE

BEALBY

THE PASSIONATE FRIENDS

THE WIFE OF SIR ISAAC HAR-

MAN
THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT
MR. BRITLING SEES IT THROUGH
THE SOUL OF A BISHOP
JOAN AND PETER
THE UNDYING FIRE

If The following fantastic and. imag-
inative romances:

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

THE TIME MACHINE

THE WONDERFUL VISIT

THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU

THE SEA LADY

THE SLEEPER AWAKES

THE FOOD CF THE GODS

THE WAR IN THE AIR

THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON'

IN THE DAYS OF THE COMET

THE WORLD SET FREE

And numerous Short Stories now collected
in One Volume under the titlo of

THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND

If A Series of books upon Social, Re*
ligious, and Political questions:

ANTICIPATIONS (1900)

MANKIND IN THE MAKING

FIRST AND LAST THINGS

NEW WORLDS FOR OLD

A MODERN UTOPIA

THE FUTURE IN AMERICA

AN ENGLISHMAN LOOKS AT THE

WORLD
WHAT IS COMING?
WAR AND THE FUTURE
IN THE FOURTH YEAR
GOD THE INVISIBLE KING
THE OUTLINE OF HISTORY
RUSSIA IN THE SHADOWS
THE SALVAGING OF CIVILIZA-
TION
WASHINGTON AND THE RIDDLE
OF PEACE

X And two little books about chil-
dren's play, called:

FLOOR GAMES and LITTLE WARS



THE SECRET PLACES
OF THE HEART



BY

H. G. WELLS



TLTEMACMILLAX COMPANY
1922

All rights reserved



ffBINIBD IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEEIOA



COPYRIGHT, 1921 AND 1022,

Br The international magazine COMPANY,

Copyright, 1921 and 1922,

By H. G. WELLS.



Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1922i
All rights reserved by the Author.



CONTENTS



CHAPTER

1. The Consultation

2. Lady Hardy ....

3. The Departure ....

4. At Maidenhead ....

5. In the Land of the Forgotten Peoples
G. The Encounter at Stonehenge .

7. Companionship ....

8. Full Moon .....

9. The Last Days of Sir Richmond Hardy



PAQD
1


22


26


42


99


. 125


., 172


. 221


. 261



THE SECRET PLACES
OF THE HEART

CHAPTER THE FIRST

THE CONSULTATION

^ 1

The maid was a young woman of great natural
calmness; she was accustomed to let in visitors
who had this air of being annoyed and finding one
umbrella too numerous for them. It mattered
nothing to her that the gentleman was asking for
Dr. Martineau as if he was asking for something
with an unpleasanl taste. Almost imperceptibly
she relieved him of bis umbrella and juggled his
hat and ooat on <<> a massive mahogany stand.
"What uame, Sir!" she asked, holding open the
door of the consulting room.

"Hardy," Baid the gentleman, and then yield-
it, reluctantly with its distasteful three-year-
old honour, "Sir Richmond Bardy."

The doer closed softly behind him and he found
himself in undivided po ion of the large indif-

1



2 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

f erent apartment in which the nervous and mental
troubles of the outer world eddied for a time on
their way to the distinguished specialist. A bowl
of daffodils, a handsome bookcase containing
bound Victorian magazines and antiquated medi-
cal works, some paintings of Scotch scenery, three
big armchairs, a buhl clock, and a bronze Dancing
Faun, by their want of any collective idea en-
hanced rather than mitigated the promiscuous dis-
regard of the room. He drifted to the midmost
of the three windows and stared out despondently
at Harley Street.

For a minute or so he remained as still and limp
as an empty jacket on its peg, and then a gust of
irritation stirred him.

"Damned fool I was to come here," he said.
. . . "Damned fool!

1 ' Rush out of the place f . . .

"I've given my name." . . ,

He heard the door behind him open and for a
moment pretended not to hear. Then he turned
round. "I don't see what you can do for me,"
he said.

"I'm sure I don't," said the doctor. "People
come here and talk."

There was something reassuringly inaggressive
about the figure that confronted Sir Richmond.
Dr. Martineau's height wanted at least three
inches of Sir Richmond's five feet eleven; he was
humanly plump, his face was round and pink and



THE CONSULTATION 3

cheerfully wistful, a little suggestive of the full
moon, of what the full moon might be if it could
get fresh air and exercise. Either his tailor had
made his trousers too short or he had braced them
too high so that he seemed to have grown out of
them quite recently. Sir Richmond had been
dreading an encounter with some dominating and
mesmeric personality; this amiable presence dis-
pelled his preconceived resistances.

Dr. Martineau, a little out of breath as though
he had been running upstairs, with his hands in his
trouser pockets, seemed intent only on disavowals.
"People come here and talk. It does them good,
and sometimes I am able to offer a suggestion.

"Talking to someone who understands a little,"
he expanded the idea.

"I'm jangling damnably . . . overwork. . . ."

"Not overwork," Dr. Martineau corrected.
"Not overwork. Overwork never hurt anyone.
Fatigue stops that. A man can work — good
straightforward work, without internal resistance,
until he drops, — and never hurt himself. You
must be working against friction."

"Friction! I'm like a machine without oil. I'm
grinding to death. . . . And it's so damned im-
portant I shouldn't break down. It's vitally
important."

He stressed his words and reinforced them with
a quivering gesture of hifl upraised clenched hand.
"My temper's in rags. I explode at any little



4 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

thing. I'm raw. I can't work steadily for ten
minutes and I can't leave off working."

"Your name," said the doctor, ''is familiar.
Sir Richmond Hardy? In the papers. What is
it?"

"Fuel."

"Of course! The Fuel Commission. Stupid
of me ! We certainly can't afford to have you ill. ' '

"I am ill. But you can't afford to have me ab-
sent from that Commission."

' ' Your technical knowledge "

' ' Technical knowledge be damned ! Those men
mean to corner the national fuel supply. And
waste it! For their profits. That's what I'm
up against. You don't know the job I have to do.
You don't know what a Commission of that sort
is. The moral tangle of it. You don't know how
its possibilities and limitations are canvassed and
schemed about, long before a single member is
appointed. Old Cassidy worked the whole thing
with the prime minister. I can see that now as
plain as daylight. I might have seen it at first.
. . . Three experts who'd been got at; they
thought Z'd been got at; two Labour men who'd
do anything you wanted them to do provided you
called them 'level-headed.' Wagstaffe the social-
ist art critic who could be trusted to play the fool
and make nationalization look silly, and the rest
mine owners, railway managers, oil profiteers, fi-
nancial adventurers. ..."



THE CONSULTATION 5

He was fairly launched. "It's the blind folly
of it ! In the days before the war it was different.
Then there was abundance. A little grabbing or
cornering was all to the good. All to the good.
It prevented things being used up too fast. And
the world was running by habit; the inertia was
tremendous. You could take all sorts of liberties.
But all this is altered. We 're living in a different
world. The public won't stand things it used to
stand. It's anew public. It's — wild. It'll smash
up the show if they go too far. Everything short
and running shorter — food, fuel, material. But
these people go on. They go on as though noth-
ing had changed. . . . Strikes, Russia, nothing
will warn them. There are men on that Commis-
sion who would steal the brakes off a mountain
railway just before they went down in it. . . . It's

a struggle with suicidal Imbeciles. It's ! But

I'm talking! I didn't come here to talk Fuel."
"You think there may be a smash-up?"
"1 lie awake at night, thinking of it."
"A social smash-up."
"Economic. Social. Yes. Don't you?"
"A social smash up seems 1<> me altogether a
ibility. All Borts of people L find think that,"
I the doctor. "All sorts of people lie awake
thinking of H."
" I wish some of my damned Committee would 1"
The doctor turned his eyes to the window. "I lie
awake too," he said and seemed to reflect. But he



6 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

was observing his patient acutely — with his
ears.

"But you see how important it is," said Sir
Richmond, and left his sentence unfinished.

"I'll do what I can for you," said the doctor,
and considered swiftly what line of talk he had
best follow.

$2

"This sense of a coming smash is epidemic,"
said the doctor. "It's at the back of all sorts of
mental trouble. It is a new state of mind. Before
the war it was abnormal — a phase of neurasthenia.
Now it is almost the normal state with whole
classes of intelligent people. Intelligent, I say.
The others always have been casual and adven-
turous and always will be. A loss of confidence
in the general background of life. So that we seem
to float over abysses."

"We do," said Sir Richmond.

"And we have nothing but the old habits and
ideas acquired in the days of our assurance. There
is a discord, a jarring."

The doctor pursued his train of thought. "A
new, raw and dreadful sense of responsibility for
the universe. Accompanied by a realization that
the job is overwhelmingly too big for us."

"We've got to stand up to the job," said Sir
Richmond. "Anyhow, what else is there to do?



THE CONSULTATION 7

We may keep things together. . . . I've got to
do my bit. And if only I could hold myself at
it, I could beat those fellows. But that's where the
devil of it comes in. Never have I been so de-
sirous to work well in my life. And never have
I been so slack and weak-willed and inaccurate.
. . . Sloppy. . . . Indolent. . . . Vicious! ..."

The doctor was about to speak, but Sir Rich-
mond interrupted him. "What's got hold of me?
What's got hold of me? I used to work well
enough. It 's as if my will had come untwisted and
was ravelling out into separate strands. I've lost
my unity. I'm not a man but a mob. I've got
to recover my vigour. At any cost."

Again as the doctor was about to speak the word
was taken out of his mouth. "And what I think
of it, Dr. Martineau, is this: it's fatigue. It's
mental and moral fatigue. Too much effort. On
too high a level. And too — austere. One strains
and fags. Flags! 'Flags' I meant to say. One
strains and flags and then the lower stuff in one,
the subconscious stuff, takes control."

There was a flavour of popularized psychoanal-
ysis about this, and the doctor drew in the corners
of his mouth and gave his head a critical slant.
"M'm." But this only made Sir Richmond raise
his voice and quicken his speech. "I want," lie
said, "a good tonic. A pick-me-up, a stimulating
harmless drug of some sort. That's indicated
anyhow. To begin with. Something to pull me



8 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

together, as people say. Bring me up to the
scratch again. ' '

"I don't like the use of drugs," said the
doctor.

The expectation of Sir Richmond's expression
changed to disappointment. ''But that's not rea-
sonable," he cried. "That's not reasonable.
That's superstition. Call a thing a drug and con-
demn it ! Everything is a drug. Everything that
affects you. Food stimulates or tranquillizes.
Drink. Noise is a stimulant and quiet an opiate.
What is life but response to stimulants? Or reac-
tion after them? When I'm exhausted I want
food. When I'm overactive and sleepless I want
tranquillizing. When I'm dispersed I want pull-
ing together."

"But we don't know how to use drugs," the doc-
tor objected.

"But you ought to know."

Dr. Martineau fixed his eye on a first floor
window sill on the opposite side of Harley Street.
His manner suggested a lecturer holding on to
his theme.

"A day will come when we shall be able to ma-
nipulate drugs — all sorts of drugs — and work them
in to our general way of living. I have no preju-
dice against them at all. A time will come when
we shall correct our moods, get down to our re-
serves of energy by their help, suspend fatigue,
put off sleep during long spells of exertion. At



THE CONSULTATION 9

some sudden crisis for example. When we shall
know enough to know just how far to go with this,
that or the other stuff. And how to wash out its
after effects. ... I quite agree with you, — in
principle. . . . But that time hasn't come yet. . . .
Decades of research yet. ... If we tried that
sort of thing now, we should be like children play-
ing with poisons and explosives. ... It's out
of the question."

"I've been taking a few little things already.
Easton Syrup for example."

"Strychnine. It carries you for a time and
drops you by the way. Has it done you any good
— any nett good? It has — I can see — broken your
sleep."

The doctor turned round again to his patient
and looked up into his troubled face.

"Given physiological trouble I don't mind re-
sorting to a drug. Given structural injury I don't
mind surgery. But except for any little mischief
your amateur dragging may have done you do not
seem to me to be either sick or injured. You've
no trouble either of structure or material. You're
— worried — ill in your mind, and otherwise per-
fectly sound. It's the ourrenl of your thoughts,
fermenting, [f the trouble is in the menial sphere,

why go out, of the mental sphere for a treatment?

Talk and thought ; these are your remedies. Cool
deliberate thought. You're unravelled. You say

it yourself. Drugs will only make this or that un-



10 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

ravelled strand behave disproportionately. You
don't want that. You want to take stock of your-
self as a whole — find out where you stand."

"But the Fuel Commission?"

"Is it sitting now?"

"Adjourned till after Whitsuntide. But there 's
heaps of work to be done.

1 ' Still," he added, "this is my one chance of
any treatment. ' '

The doctor made a little calculation. "Three
weeks. ... It's scarcely time enough to begin."

"You're certain that no regimen of carefully
planned and chosen tonics "

"Dismiss the idea. Dismiss it." He decided to
take a plunge. "I've just been thinking of a
little holiday for myself. But I'd like to see you
through this. And if I am to see you through,
there ought to be some sort of beginning now.
In this three weeks. Suppose. ..."

Sir Richmond leapt to his thought. "I'm free
to go anywhere. ' '

"Golf would drive a man of your composition
mad?"

"It would."

"That's that. Still—. . . The country must be

getting beautiful again now, — after all the rain

we have had. I have a little two-seater. I don't
know. . . . The repair people promise to release

it before Friday. ' '



THE CONSULTATION 11

"But / have a choice of two very comfortable
little cars. Why not be my guest?"

"That might be more convenient."

"I'd prefer my own car."

"Then what do you say?"

"I agree. Peripatetic treatment."

"South and west. We could talk on the road.
In the evenings. By the wayside. We might
make the beginnings of a treatment. ... A sim-
ple tour. Nothing elaborate. You wouldn't
bring a man?"

"I always drive myself."



§ 3

"There's something very pleasant," said the
doctor, envisaging his own rash proposal, "in
travelling along roads you don't know and seeing
houses and parks and villages and towns for
which you do not feel in the slightest degree re-
sponsible. They hide all their troubles from the
road. Their backyards are tucked away out of
sight, they show a brave face; there's none of the
nasty sell' betrayals of the railway approach. And
everything will be fresh still. There will still be

a lot of apple blossom — and bluebells. . . . And
all the while we can be getting on with your
affair."



12 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

He was back at the window now. "I want the
holiday myself," he said.

He addressed Sir Richmond over his shoulder.
"Have you noted how fagged and unstable every-
body is getting? Everybody intelligent, I mean."

"It's an infernally worrying time."

"Exactly. Everybody suffers."

"It's no good going on in the old ways "

"It isn't. And it's a frightful strain to get
into any new ways. So here we are.

"A man," the doctor expanded, "isn't a crea-
ture in vacuo. He's himself and his world. He's
a surface of contact, a system of adaptations, be-
tween his essential self and his surroundings.
Well, our surroundings have become — how shall
I put it? — a landslide. The war which seemed
such a definable catastrophe in 1914 was, after all,
only the first loud crack and smash of the collapse.
The war is over and — nothing is over. This peace
is a farce, reconstruction an exploded phrase. The
slide goes on, — it goes, if anything, faster, with-
out a sign of stopping. And all our poor little
adaptations! Which we have been elaborating
and trusting all our lives ! . . . One after another
they fail us. We are stripped. . . . We have to
begin all over again. ... I'm fifty-seven and I
feel at times nowadays like a chicken new hatched
in a thunderstorm."

The doctor walked towards the bookcase and
turned.



THE CONSULTATION 13

" Everybody is like that. ... It isn't — what
are you going to do? It isn't — what am I going
to do? It's — what are we all going to do? . . .
Lord ! How safe and established everything was
in 1910, say. We talked of this great war that was
coming, but nobody thought it would come. We
had been born in peace, comparatively speaking;
we had been brought up in peace. There was talk
of wars. There were wars — little wars — that al-
tered nothing material. . . . Consols used to be
at 112 and you fed your household on ten shillings
a head a week. You could run over all Europe,
barring Turkey and Russia, without even a pass-
port. You could get to Italy in a day. Never
were life and comfort so safe — for respectable
people. And we were respectable people. . . .
That was the world that made us what we are.
Thai was the sheltering and friendly greenhouse
in which we grew. We fitted our minds to that.
. . . And here we are with the greenhouse fall-
ing in upon as Lump by lump, smash and clatter,
the wild winds of heaven tearing in through the

ipa."

Upstairs on Dr. Martineau's desk lay the
typescript of tin' opening chapters of a hook that
was Intended to make a greal splash in the world,
his Psychology of a New Age. Be had his meta-
phors ready.

"We said : 'This system will always go on. We

needn't bother abont it.' We just planned our



14 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

lives accordingly. It was like a bird building its
nest of frozen snakes. My father left me a decent
independence. I developed my position; I have
lived between here and the hospital, doing good
work, enormously interested, prosperous, mildly
distinguished. I had been born and brought up on
the good ship Civilization. I assumed that some-
one else was steering the ship all right. I never
knew ; I never enquired. ' '

"Nor did I," said Sir Richmond, "but "

"And nobody was steering the ship," the doc-
tor went on. ' ' Nobody had ever steered the ship.
It was adrift."

"I realized that. I "

" It is a new realization. Always hitherto men
have lived by faith — as children do, as the animals
do. At the back of the healthy mind, human or
animal, has been this persuasion: "This is all
right. This will go on. If I keep the rule, if I
do so and so, all will be well. I need not trouble
further; things are cared for.' "

"If we could go on like that!" said Sir
Richmond.

"We can't. That faith is dead. The war — and
the peace — have killed it."

The doctor's round face became speculative.
His resemblance to the full moon increased. He
seemed + o gaze at remote things. "It may very
well be that man is no more capable of living out
of that atmosphere of assurance than a tadpole is



THE CONSULTATION 15

of living out of water. His mental existence may
be conditional on that. Deprived of it he may be-
come incapable of sustained social life. He may
become frantically self-seeking — incoherent . . .
a stampede. . . . Human sanity may — disperse.
"That's our trouble," the doctor completed.
"Our fundamental trouble. All our confidences
and our accustomed adaptations are destroyed.
We fit together no longer. We are — loose. We
don't know where we are nor what to do. The
psychology of the former time fails to give safe
responses, and the psychology of the New Age
has still to develop."

M

"That is all very well," said Sir Richmond in
the resolute voice of one who will be pent no
longer. "That is all very well as far as it goes.
But it does not cover my case. I am not suffering
from Lnadaptation. I have adapted. I have
thought things out. I think — much as you do.

Much as you do. So it's not that. But . . .

Mind you, I am perfectly clear where I am. Where
we are. What is happening to us all is the break-
up of the entire system. Agreed! We have to
make another system or perish amidst the wreck-
age. I see that clearly. Science and plan have
to replace custom and tradition in human affairs.
Soon. Very soon. Granted. Granted. We used



16 SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

to say all that. Even before the war. Now
we mean it. We've muddled about in the old
ways overlong. Some new sort of world, planned
and scientific, has to be got going. Civilization re-
newed. Rebuilding civilization — while the prem-
ises are still occupied and busy. It's an immense
enterprise, but it is the only thing to be done.
In some ways it's an enormously attractive en-
terprise. Inspiring. It grips my imagination. I
think of the other men who must be at work.
Working as I do rather in the dark as yet. With
whom I shall presently join up. . . . The attempt
may fail; all things human may fail; but on the
other hand it may succeed. I never had such
faith in anything as I have in the rightness of the
work I am doing now. I begin at that. But here
is where my difficulty comes in. The top of my
brain, my innermost self says all that I have been

saying, but The rest of me won't follow.

The rest of me refuses to attend, forgets, strag-
gles, misbehaves."

"Exactly."

The word irritated Sir Richmond. "Not 'ex-
actly' at all. 'Amazingly,' if you like. ... I
have this unlimited faith in our present tremen-
dous necessity — for work — for devotion ; I believe
my share, the work I am doing, is essential to
the whole thing — and I work sluggishly. I work
reluctantly. I work damnably."

"Exact " The doctor checked himself. "All



THE CONSULTATION 17

that is explicable. Indeed it is. Listen for a mo-
ment to me! Consider what you are. Consider
what we are. Consider what a man is before you
marvel at his ineptitudes of will. Face the ac-
cepted facts. Here is a creature not ten thousand
generations from the ape, his ancestor. Not ten
thousand. And that ape again, not a score of
thousands from the monkey, his forebear. A man's
body, his bodily powers, are just the body and
powers of an ape, a little improved, a little
adapted to novel needs. That brings me to my
point. Can his mind and will be anything better?
For a few generations, a few hundreds at most,
knowledge and wide thought have flared out on
the darknesses of life. . . . But the substance
of man is ape still. He may carry a light in his
brain, but his instincts move in the darkness. Out
of that darkness he draws his motives."

"Or fails to draw them," said Sir Richmond.

"Or fails. . . . And that is where these new
methods of treatment come in. We explore that
failure. Together. What the psychoanalyst
does — and 1 will confess that I owe much to the
psychoanalyst — what lie does is to direct thwarted,
disappointed and perplexed people to the reali-
ties of their own nature. Which they have
been accustomed to ignore and forget. They come
to us with high ambitions or Lovely illusions about
themselves, torn, shredded, spoilt. They are mor-
ally denuded. Dreams they hate pursue them;



18 SECRET PLACES OP THE HEART

abhorrent desires draw them; they are the prey
of irresistible yet uncongenial impulses ; they suc-
cumb to black despairs. The first thing we ask
them is this : ' What else could you expect f ' "

"What else could I expect?" Sir Richmond re-
peated, looking down on him. "H'm!"

"The wonder is not that you are sluggish, re-
luctantly unselfish, inattentive, spasmodic. The
wonder is that you are ever anything else. . . .
Do you realize that a few million generations ago,
everything that stirs in us, everything that exalts
human life, self-devotions, heroisms, the utmost


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