MARTHA: The tea you ordered.
JAN: But—I didn’t order anything.
MARTHA: Oh? The old man must have heard wrong. He often understands badly. Still, as the tea is here, I suppose you’ll have it? [She puts the tray on the table. JAN makes a vague gesture.] It won’t go on the bill.
JAN: No, it isn’t that. But I’m glad you brought me some tea. Very kind of you.
MARTHA: Please don’t mention it. What we do is in our interests.
JAN: I can see you’re determined not to leave me any illusions! But frankly I don’t see where your interest comes in, in this case.
MARTHA: It does, I assure you. Sometimes a cup of tea’s enough to keep our guests here.
[She goes out. JAN picks up the cup, stares at it, puts it down again.]
JAN: So the prodigal son’s feast is continuing. First, a glass of beer—but in exchange for my money; then a cup of tea—because it encourages the visitor to stay on. But I’m to blame, too; I cannot strike the right note. When I’m confronted by that girl’s almost brutal frankness, I search in vain for the words that would put things right between us. Of course, her part is simpler; it’s easier to find words for a rebuff than those which reconcile. [He picks up the cup, is silent for some moments, then continues in a low, tense voice] O God, give me the power to find the right words, or else make me abandon this vain attempt and return to Maria’s love. And then give me the strength, once I have chosen, to abide by my choice. [He raises the cup to his lips.] The feast of the returning prodigal. The least I can do is to do it honor; and so I shall have played my part until I leave this place. [He drinks. Loud knocking at the door.] Who’s there?
[The door opens. The MOTHER enters.]
THE MOTHER: I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but my daughter tells me she brought you some tea.
JAN: There it is.
THE MOTHER: Have you drunk it?
JAN: Yes. Why do you ask?
THE MOTHER: Excuse me, I’ve come to fetch the tray.
JAN [smiling]: I’m sorry this cup of tea is causing so much trouble.
THE MOTHER: It isn’t quite that. But, as a matter of fact, that tea was not meant for you.
JAN: Ah, there’s the explanation. It was brought without my having ordered it.
THE MOTHER [wearily]: Yes, that’s it. It would have been better if.… Anyhow that hasn’t any great importance, whether you’ve drunk it or not.
JAN: [in a puzzled tone]: I’m exceedingly sorry, I assure you, but your daughter insisted on leaving it, and I never imagined.…
THE MOTHER: I’m sorry, too. But please don’t excuse yourself. It was just a mistake.
[She puts the cup and saucer on the tray and moves toward the door.]
JAN: Madame!
THE MOTHER: Yes?
JAN: I must apologize again. I’ve just come to a decision. I think I’ll leave this evening, after dinner. Naturally I’ll pay for the room, for the night. [She gazes at him in silence.] I quite understand your looking surprised. But please don’t imagine you are in any way responsible for my sudden change of plan. I have a great regard for you, a very great regard. But, to be candid, I don’t feel at ease here, and I’d rather not stay the night.
THE MOTHER: That’s quite all right, sir. Of course you can do exactly as you wish. Still, perhaps you may change your mind between now and dinnertime. Sometimes one yields to a passing impression, but later on things settle themselves and one gets used to new conditions.
JAN: I doubt it, madame. However, I would not like you to believe I am leaving because I’m dissatisfied with you. On the contrary, I am very grateful to you for welcoming me as you have done. For, I must say, I seemed to notice you had a certain … friendliness toward me.
THE MOTHER: That was only natural, sir, and I’m sure you understand I had no personal reasons for showing any ill will.
JAN [with restrained emotion]: That may be so—I hope so. But, if I told you that, it is because I want us to part on good terms. Later on, perhaps, I’ll come back. In fact I’m sure I shall. And then things will certainly go better, and I’ve no doubt we shall find pleasure in meeting again. But just now I feel that I have made a mistake, I have no business being here. In a word—though this may strike you as an odd way of putting it—I have a feeling that this house isn’t for me.
THE MOTHER: I know what you mean, sir. But usually one feels that sort of thing immediately; you have been rather slow, it seems to me, to discover it.
JAN: I agree. But just now I’m rather at sea. I’ve come to Europe on some urgent business, and it’s always a bit disconcerting, returning to a country after years and years of absence. I trust you understand what I mean.
THE MOTHER: Yes, I do understand, and I’d have liked things to turn out as you wished. But I think that, as far as we’re concerned, there’s nothing more we can do about it.
JAN: So it seems, I admit. Still, really, one never can be sure.
THE MOTHER: Anyhow, I think we have done everything needed to have you stay with us.
JAN: Indeed you have, and I’ve nothing to complain of. The truth is that you are the first people I have met since my return, so it’s natural my first taste of the difficulties ahead should come when I’m with you. Obviously I alone am to blame for this; I haven’t found my feet yet.
THE MOTHER: It’s often like that in life; one makes a bad start, and nobody can do anything about it. In a way it’s quite true that what has happened vexes me as well. But I tell myself that, after all, I’ve no reason to attach importance to it.
JAN: Well, it’s something that you share my discomfort and that you try to understand me. I can hardly tell you how touched I am by your attitude, and how much I appreciate it. [He stretches his hand toward her.] Really I …
THE MOTHER: Oh, what you call my attitude’s quite natural, really. It’s our duty to make ourselves agreeable to our guests.
JAN [in a disappointed tone]: That’s so. [A short silence.] So it comes to this: all I owe you is an apology and, if you think fit, some compensation. [He draws his hand over his forehead. He seems exhausted and is speaking less easily.] You may have made preparations, gone to some expense; so it’s only fair.…
THE MOTHER: The only preparations we’ve made are those we always make in such cases. And I can assure you that you owe us no compensation. It was not on our account that I was regretting your indecision, but on yours.
JAN [leaning against the table]: Oh, that doesn’t matter. The great thing is that we understand each other and I won’t leave you with too bad an impression of myself. Personally I shall not forget this house—be sure of that—and I hope that when I return I’ll be in a better mood to appreciate it. [She goes to the door without speaking.] Madame! [She turns. He speaks with some difficulty, but ends more easily than he began.] I’d like.… Excuse me, but my journey’s tired me. [Sits on the bed.] I’d like anyhow to thank you for the tea, and for the welcome you have given me. And I’d also like you to know that I won’t leave this house feeling like a stranger.
THE MOTHER: Really, sir, being thanked for something due to a mistake is always embarrassing.
[She goes out. JAN watches her, makes as if to move, but one can see he is feeling limp. Then, leaning his elbow on the pillow, he seems to abandon himself to his growing lethargy.]
JAN: Yes, I must handle it quite simply, quite straight forwardly. Tomorrow I’ll come here with Maria and I shall say “It’s I.” There’s nothing to prevent my making them happy. Maria was right; I can see that now. [He sighs and leans back on the pillow.] I don’t like the feel of this evening; everything seems so far away. [He stretches himself full-length on the bed, murmuring almost
