MARTHA [after holding the lamp above the sleeping man; in a whisper]: All’s well.
THE MOTHER [in a low voice at first, but gradually raising it]: No, Martha! I dislike having my hand forced like this. I’m being dragged into this act; you began it so that I’d have no chance of drawing back. I don’t like your way of riding roughshod over my reluctance.
MARTHA: It is a way that simplifies everything. If you had given me any clear reason for your reluctance, I’d have been bound to consider it. But as you couldn’t make up your mind, it was right for me to help you by taking the first step.
THE MOTHER: I know, of course, that it does not greatly matter; this man or some other, today or some later day, tonight or tomorrow—it had to come to that. None the less, I don’t feel pleased about it.
MARTHA: Come, mother! Think of tomorrow instead, and let’s get busy. Our freedom will begin when this night ends.
[She unbuttons JAN’S coat, extracts his wallet, and counts the notes.]
THE MOTHER: How soundly he’s sleeping!
MARTHA: He’s sleeping as they all slept.… Now let’s start.
THE MOTHER: Wait a little, please. Isn’t it strange how helpless and defenseless men look when they’re asleep?
MARTHA: It’s an attitude they assume. They always wake up eventually.…
THE MOTHER [meditatively]: No, men aren’t quite so remarkable as you seem to think. But of course you, Martha, don’t know what I mean.
MARTHA: No, mother, I don’t. But I do know that we are wasting time.
THE MOTHER [with a sort of weary irony]: Oh, there’s no such hurry. On the contrary, this is the moment we can relax, now that the main thing’s done. Why work yourself up like this? Is it really worth while?
MARTHA: Nothing’s worth while, the moment one talks about it. It’s better to get on with the work in hand and ask no questions of oneself.
THE MOTHER [calmly]: Let’s sit down, Martha.
MARTHA: Here? Beside him?
THE MOTHER: Certainly. Why not? He has entered on a sleep that will take him far, and it’s not likely he will wake up and inquire what we’re doing here. As for the rest of the world—it stops short at that closed door. Why shouldn’t we enjoy this little breathing space in peace?
MARTHA: You’re joking, and it’s my turn to tell you I don’t appreciate your way of talking.
THE MOTHER: You’re wrong. I don’t feel in the least like joking. I’m merely showing calmness, while you are letting your nerves run wild. No, Martha, sit down [She gives a curious laugh] and look at that man who’s even more innocent in sleep than in his talk. He, anyhow, is through with the world. From now on, everything will be easy for him. He will pass from a dreamful sleep into dreamless sleep. And what for others is a cruel wrench will be for him no more than a protracted rest.
MARTHA: Innocence has the sleep that innocence deserves. And this man, anyhow, I had no reason for hating. So I’m glad he is being spared any pain. But I’ve no reason, either, for looking at him, and I think it a bad idea of yours, staring like that a man whom presently you’ll have to carry.
THE MOTHER [shaking her head; in a low voice]: When the hour comes we shall carry him. But we still have time in hand and perhaps it won’t be such a bad idea—for him at any rate—if we look at him attentively. For it’s not too late yet; sleep isn’t death. Yes, Martha, look at him. He is living through a moment when he has no say in his fate; when his hopes of life are made over to indifferent hands. Let these hands stay as they are, folded in my lap, until the dawn, and without his knowing anything, he’ll have entered on a new lease of life. But if they move toward him and form a hard ring round his ankles, he will lie in an unremembered grave for ever.
MARTHA [rising brusquely]: Mother, you’re forgetting that all nights end, and we have much to do. First, we must look through the papers in his pockets and carry him downstairs. Then we’ll have to put out all the lights and keep watch in the doorway as long as need be.
THE MOTHER: Yes, there is much for us to do, and that is where we are in a different case from his; he, at least, is free now of the burden of his life. He has done with the anxiety of making decisions, with thoughts of work that must be done, with strain and stress. A cross is lifted from his shoulders; the cross of that inner life which allows of no repose, no weakness, no relaxing. At this moment he exacts nothing of himself, and old and tired as I am, I almost think that there lies happiness.
MARTHA: We’ve no time for wondering where happiness lies. When I have kept watch as long as need be, there will still be much to do. We shall have to go down to the river and make sure some drunk man isn’t sleeping on the bank. Then we’ll have to carry him down there as quickly as we can—and you know the effort that means. We shall have to do it in several stages and, once we are on the bank, swing him out as far as possible into midstream. And let me remind you again that nights don’t last for ever.
THE MOTHER: Yes, all that lies before us, and the mere thought of it makes me tired, with a tiredness that has lasted so long that my old blood can’t cope with it. And, meanwhile, this man has no suspicion; he is enjoying his repose. If we let him wake he’ll have to start life again, and from what I’ve seen of him, I know he is much like other men and cannot live in peace. Perhaps that is why we must take him there and hand him over to the mercy of the dark water. [She sighs.] But it’s a sad thing so much effort should be needed to rid a man of his follies and put him in the way of peace.
MARTHA: I can only think, mother, that your wits are wandering. I repeat, we have much to do. Once he’s thrown in, we shall have to efface the marks on the riverbank, blur our footsteps on the path, destroy his clothes and baggage—make him vanish from the face of the earth, in fact. Time’s passing and soon it will be too late to carry all this out with the composure that it needs. Really I cannot understand what has come over you, to be sitting at that man’s bedside and staring at him, though you can hardly see him, and persisting in this absurd, useless talk.
THE MOTHER: Tell me, Martha. Did you know that he meant to leave this evening?
MARTHA: No, I didn’t. But if I’d known, it wouldn’t have changed anything, once I had made up my mind.
THE MOTHER: He told me that just now, and I didn’t know how to answer him.
MARTHA: Ah! So you had a talk with him?
THE MOTHER: Yes, when you said you’d brought his tea, I came here. I’d have stopped him from drinking it, if I had been in time. As it was, once I knew the beginning had been made, I felt we’d better let things take their course; really it hadn’t much importance.
MARTHA: If you still feel like that, there’s no reason for dawdling here. So please get up from that chair and help me finish off this business—which is getting on my nerves.
THE MOTHER [rising]: Yes, I suppose I’ll end by helping you. Only you might allow a few minutes more to an old woman whose blood doesn’t flow as fast as yours. You’ve been on the rush ever since this morning, and you expect me to keep pace with you! Even that man there couldn’t manage it; before he had framed the thought of leaving, he’d drunk the tea you gave him.
MARTHA: If you must know, it was he who made up my mind for me. You talked me into sharing your reluctance. But then he started telling me about those countries where I’ve always longed to go, and by working on my feelings hardened my heart against him. Thus innocence is rewarded.
THE MOTHER: And yet he’d come to understand. He said he felt that this house was not his home.
MARTHA [violently and impatiently]: Of course it is not his home. For that matter it is nobody’s home. No one will ever find warmth or comfort or contentment in this house. Had he realized that sooner, he’d have been spared, and spared us, too. He would have spared our having to teach him that this room is made for sleeping in, and this world for dying in. Come, mother, and for the sake of the God you sometimes call on, let’s have done with it.
[The MOTHER takes a step toward the bed.]
THE MOTHER: Very well, Martha, we’ll begin. But I have a feeling that tomorrow’s dawn will never come.
CURTAIN
ACT III
The public room. The MOTHER, MARTHA and the MANSERVANT are on the stage. The old man is sweeping and tidying up the room; MARTHA, standing behind the bar, is drawing back her hair. The MOTHER is walking toward
