MARTHA: Yes, and I prefer it so. I’ve no use for hints and evasions. Crime is crime, and one should know what one is doing. And, from what you’ve just said, it looks as if you had it in mind when you were talking to that traveler.
THE MOTHER: No, I wouldn’t say I had it in mind—it was more from force of habit.
MARTHA: Habit? But you said yourself that these opportunities seldom come our way.
THE MOTHER: Certainly. But habit begins with the second crime. With the first nothing starts, but something ends. Then, too, while we have had few opportunities, they have been spread out over many years, and memory helps to build up habits. Yes, it was force of habit that made me keep my eyes off that man when I was talking to him, and, all the same, convinced me he had the look of a victim.
MARTHA: Mother, we must kill him.
THE MOTHER [in a low tone]: Yes, I suppose we’ll have to.
MARTHA: You said that in a curious way.
THE MOTHER: I’m tired, that’s all. Anyhow, I’d like this one to be the last. It’s terribly tiring to kill. And, though really I care little where I die—beside the sea or here, far inland—I do hope we will get away together, the moment it’s over.
MARTHA: Indeed we shall—and what a glorious moment that will be! So, cheer up, mother, there won’t be much to do. You know quite well there’s no question of killing. He’ll drink his tea, he’ll go to sleep, and he’ll be still alive when we carry him to the river. Some day, long after, he will be found jammed against the weir, along with others who didn’t have his luck and threw themselves into the water with their eyes open. Do you remember last year when we were watching them repair the sluices, how you said that ours suffered least, and life was crueler than we? So don’t lose heart, you’ll be having your rest quite soon and I’ll be seeing what I’ve never seen.
THE MOTHER: Yes, Martha, I won’t lose heart. And it was quite true, what you said about “ours.” I’m always glad to think they never suffered. Really, it’s hardly a crime, only a sort of intervention, a flick of the finger given to unknown lives. And it’s also quite true that, by the look of it, life is crueler than we. Perhaps that is why I can’t manage to feel guilty. I can only just manage to feel tired.
[The OLD MANSERVANT comes in. He seats himself behind the bar and remains there, neither moving nor speaking, until JAN’S entrance.]
MARTHA: Which room shall we put him in?
THE MOTHER: Any room, provided it’s on the first floor.
MARTHA: Yes, we had a lot of needless trouble last time, with the two flights of stairs. [For the first time she sits down.] Tell me, mother, is it true that down on the coast the sand’s so hot it scorches one’s feet?
THE MOTHER: As you know, Martha, I’ve never been there. But I’ve been told the sun burns everything up.
MARTHA: I read in a book that it even burns out people’s souls and gives them bodies that shine like gold but are quite hollow, there’s nothing left inside.
THE MOTHER: Is that what makes you want to go there so much?
MARTHA: Yes, my soul’s a burden to me, I’ve had enough of it. I’m eager to be in that country, where the sun kills every question. I don’t belong here.
THE MOTHER: Unfortunately we have much to do beforehand. Of course, when it’s over, I’ll go there with you. But I am not like you; I shall not have the feeling of going to a place where I belong. After a certain age one knows there is no resting place anywhere. Indeed there’s something to be said for this ugly brick house we’ve made our home and stocked with memories; there are times when one can fall asleep in it. But, naturally it would mean something, too, if I could have sleep and forgetfulness together. [She rises and walks toward the door.] Well, Martha, get everything ready. [Pauses.] If it’s really worth the effort.
[MARTHA watches her go out. Then she, too, leaves by another door. For some moments only the OLD MANSERVANT is on the stage. JAN enters, stops, glances round the room, and sees the old man sitting behind the counter.]
JAN: Nobody here? [The old man gazes at him, rises, crosses the stage, and goes out. MARIA enters. JAN swings round on her.] So you followed me!
MARIA: Forgive me—I couldn’t help it. I may not stay long. Only please let me look at the place where I’m leaving you.
JAN: Somebody may come, and your being here will upset all my plans.
MARIA: Do please let us take the chance of someone’s coming and my telling who you are. I know you don’t want it, but—[He turns away fretfully. A short silence. MARIA is examining the room.] So this is the place?
JAN: Yes. That’s the door I went out by, twenty years ago. My sister was a little girl. She was playing in that corner. My mother didn’t come to kiss me. At the time I thought I didn’t care.
MARIA: Jan, I can’t believe they failed to recognize you just now. A mother’s bound to recognize her son; it’s the least she can do.
JAN: Perhaps. Still, twenty years’ separation makes a difference. Life has been going on since I left. My mother’s grown old, her sight is failing. I hardly recognized her myself.
MARIA [impatiently]: I know. You came in; you said “Good day”; you sat down. This room wasn’t like the one you remembered.
JAN: Yes, my memory had played me false. They received me without a word. I was given the glass of beer I asked for. I was looked at, but I wasn’t seen. Everything was more difficult than I’d expected.
MARIA: You know quite well it needn’t have been difficult; you had only to speak. On such occasions one says “It’s I,” and then it’s all plain sailing.
JAN: True. But I’d been imagining—all sorts of things. I’d expected a welcome like the prodigal son’s. Actually I was given a glass of beer, against payment. It took the words out of my mouth, and I thought I’d better let things take their course.
MARIA: There was nothing to take its course. It was another of those ideas of yours—and a word would have been enough.
JAN: It wasn’t an idea of mine, Maria; it was the force of things. What’s more, I’m not in such a hurry. I have come here to bring them my money, and if I can, some happiness. When I learned about my father’s death I realized I had duties toward these two women and now, as a result, I’m doing what it’s right for me to do. But evidently it is not so easy as people think, coming back to one’s old home, and it takes time to change a stranger into a son.
MARIA: But why not let them know the truth at once? There are situations in which the normal way of acting is obviously the best. If one wants to be recognized, one starts by telling one’s name; that’s common sense. Otherwise, by pretending to be what one is not, one simply muddles everything. How could you expect not to be treated as a stranger in a house you entered under false colors? No, dear, there’s something … something morbid about the way you’re doing this.
JAN: Oh, come, Maria! It’s not so serious as that. And, mind you, it suits my plan. I shall take this opportunity of seeing them from the outside. Then I’ll have a better notion of what to do to make them happy. Afterwards, I’ll find some way of getting them to recognize me. It’s just a matter of choosing one’s words.
MARIA: No, there’s only one way, and it’s to do what any ordinary mortal would do—to say “It’s I,” and to let one’s heart speak for itself.
JAN: The heart isn’t so simple as all that.
MARIA: But it uses simple words. Surely there was no difficulty in saying: “I’m your son. This is my wife. I’ve been living with her in a country we both love, a land of endless sunshine beside the sea. But something was lacking there to complete my happiness, and now I feel I need you.”
JAN: Don’t be unfair, Maria. I don’t need them; but I realized they may need me, and a man doesn’t live only for himself.
[A short silence. MARIA looks away from him.]
MARIA: Perhaps you are right. I’m sorry for what I said. But I have grown terribly suspicious since coming to this country where I’ve looked in vain for a single happy face. This Europe of yours is so sad. Since we’ve been here, I haven’t once heard you laugh, and, as for me, I feel my nerves on edge all the time. Oh, why did you make me leave my country? Let’s go away, Jan; we shall not find happiness here.
JAN: It’s not happiness we’ve come for. We had happiness already.
MARIA [passionately]: Then why not have been satisfied with it?
JAN: Happiness isn’t everything; there is duty, too. Mine was to come back to my mother and my own country. [MARIA makes a protesting gesture and is about to answer. JAN checks her. Footsteps can be heard.] Someone’s coming. Do please go, Maria.
MARIA: No, I can’t, I can’t! Not yet, anyhow!
JAN [as the footsteps approach]: Go there. [He gently
