JAN [producing a passport from his pocket]: I’ve a passport. Here it is. Will you have a look at it? [She takes it, but her thoughts are obviously elsewhere. She seems to be weighing it in her palm; then she hands it back.]
MARTHA: No, keep it. When you’re over there, do you live near the sea?
JAN: Yes.
[She gets up, seems about to put the book away; then, changing her mind, holds it open in front of her.]
MARTHA [with sudden harshness]: Ah, I was forgetting. Have you a family?
JAN: Well, I had one once. But I left them many years ago.
MARTHA: No, I meant, are you married?
JAN: Why do you ask that? I’ve never had the question put to me in any other hotel.
MARTHA: It’s one of the questions on the list given us by the police.
JAN: You surprise me.… Yes, I’m married. Didn’t you notice my wedding ring?
MARTHA: No, I didn’t. It’s none of my business to look at your hands; I’m here to fill in your registration form. Your wife’s address, please.
JAN: Well, she … as a matter of fact, she’s stayed behind, in her country.
MARTHA: Ah! Very good. [Closes the book.] Shall I bring you a drink now, while your room’s being made ready?
JAN: No, thanks. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here. I hope I won’t be in your way.
MARTHA: Why should you be in my way? This is a public room, for the use of our customers.
JAN: Yes, but someone by himself can be more of a nuisance than a crowd of people.
MARTHA [busying herself about the room]: Why? I presume you don’t intend to waste my time with idle chatter. I’ve no use for people who come here and try to play the fool—and you should have guessed that. The people hereabouts have learned it, anyhow, and you’ll very soon see for yourself that this is a quiet inn, and you’ll have all the calm you want. Hardly anybody comes here.
JAN: That can’t be very good for business.
MARTHA: We may lose some, but we make up for it in peace, and peace is something for which you can’t pay too high a price. And don’t forget that one good customer is better than a roaring trade; so that’s what we are out for—the right kind of visitor.
JAN: But.… [He hesitates.] Isn’t your life here a bit dull at times? Don’t you and your mother find it very lonely?
MARTHA [rounding on him angrily]: I decline to answer such questions. You had no business to ask them, and you should have known it. I can see I’ll have to warn you how things stand. As a guest at this inn you have the rights and privileges of a guest, but nothing more. Still, don’t be afraid, you will have every attention you’re entitled to. You will be very well looked after and I shall be greatly surprised if you ever complain of your reception here. But I fail to see why we should go out of our way to give you special reasons for satisfaction. That’s why your questions are out of place. It has nothing to do with you whether or not we feel lonely; just as you need not trouble yourself whether you cause us inconvenience or ask too much of us. By all means stand upon your rights as a guest. But do not go beyond them.
JAN: I beg your pardon. Nothing was further from my intention than to offend you; I only wanted to show my good will. I had a feeling that perhaps we weren’t quite so remote from each other as you seem to think; no more than that.
MARTHA: I can see I must repeat what I was saying. There can be no question of offending me or not offending me. Since you seem determined to adopt an attitude that you have no right to adopt, I prefer to make things clear. I can assure you I’m not in the least vexed. Only it is in our interest, yours and mine, that we should keep our distance. If you persist in talking in a manner unbecoming a guest, there’s no alternative; we must refuse to have you here. But if you will understand, as I cannot doubt you will, that two women who let you a room in their hotel are under no obligation to treat you as a friend into the bargain, all will go smoothly.
JAN: I quite agree; and it was inexcusable, my giving you an impression that I failed to understand this.
MARTHA: Oh, there’s no great harm done. You are not the first who’s tried to take that line. But I always made it pretty clear how we felt about such matters, and that settled it.
JAN: Yes, you certainly have made it clear, and I suppose I’d better say no more—for the present.
MARTHA: Not at all. There’s nothing to prevent your talking as a guest should talk.
JAN: And how should a guest talk?
MARTHA: Most of our guests talk about all sorts of things: politics, their travels, and so forth. Never about my mother or myself—and that is as it should be. Some of them even talk about their private lives or their jobs. And that, too, is within their rights. After all, one of the services for which we’re paid is listening to our customers. But it goes without saying that the charges made for board and lodging don’t oblige hotelkeepers to answer personal questions. My mother may do so sometimes, out of indifference; but I make a principle of refusing. Once you’ve grasped this, we shall not only be on excellent terms, but you’ll discover you have many things to tell us, and that sometimes it’s quite pleasant to be listened to when one’s talking about oneself.
JAN: I’m afraid you won’t find me much good at talking about myself. But, really, that won’t be necessary. If I stay here only a short time, there will be no point in your getting to know me. And if I make a long stay, you’ll have plenty of opportunity of knowing who I am, without my speaking.
MARTHA: I hope you will not bear me any malice for what I’ve told you. There’d be no reason for it, anyhow. I’ve always found it better to be quite frank, and I had to stop your talking in a tone that was bound to lead to strained relations. Really, I’m asking nothing out of the way. Until today there was nothing in common between us, and some very special reasons would be needed for our suddenly becoming intimate. And you must forgive me if I fail to see, so far, anything in the least resembling a reason of that kind.
JAN: I’d forgiven you already. Indeed, I quite agree that intimacy isn’t come by at a moment’s notice; one has to earn it. So, if you now consider that everything’s been cleared up between us, I can only say I’m very glad of it.
[The MOTHER enters.]
THE MOTHER: Good afternoon, sir. Your room is ready now.
JAN: Thanks very much, madame.
[The MOTHER sits down.]
THE MOTHER [to MARTHA]: Have you filled in the form?
MARTHA: Yes, I’ve done that.
THE MOTHER: May I have a look? You must excuse me, sir, but the police here are very strict.… Yes, I see my daughter’s not put down whether you’ve come here on business, or for reasons of health, or as a tourist.
JAN: Well, let’s say as a tourist.
THE MOTHER: To see the monastery, no doubt? It’s very highly thought of, I’m told.
JAN: Yes, indeed; I’ve heard a lot about it. Also I wanted to see this place again. It has very pleasant memories for me.
THE MOTHER: Did you ever live here?
JAN: No, but a long time ago I happened to come this way, and I’ve never forgotten that visit.
THE MOTHER: Still, this is just an ordinary little country town.
JAN: That’s so. But I’m much attached to it. In fact, ever since I came here I’ve been feeling almost at home.
THE MOTHER: Will you be staying long?
JAN: Really, I don’t know. I imagine that surprises you, but it’s the truth. I don’t know. To stay in a place you need to have reasons—friendships, the presence of people you are fond of. Otherwise there’d be no point in staying there rather than elsewhere. And since it’s hard to know if one will be made welcome, it’s natural for me to be uncertain about my plans.
THE MOTHER: That sounds a little vague, if I may say so.
JAN: I know, but I can’t express myself better, I’m afraid.
THE MOTHER: Anyhow, I expect you’ll soon have had enough of this place.
JAN: No, I’ve a faithful heart, and I soon build up memories and attachments, if I’m given a chance.
MARTHA [impatiently]: A faithful heart, indeed! Hearts count for mighty little here!
JAN [seeming not to have heard her; to the MOTHER]: You seem terribly disillusioned. Have you been living long in this hotel?
THE MOTHER: For years and years. So many years that I have quite forgotten when it began and the woman I was then. This girl is my daughter. She’s kept beside me all through those years, and probably that’s why I know she is my daughter. Otherwise I might have forgotten her, too.
MARTHA: Really, mother! You’ve no reason to tell him all that.
THE MOTHER: You’re right, Martha.
JAN [hastily]: Please don’t say any more. But how well I understand your feelings, madame; they’re what one comes to at the end of a long, hard-working life. Yet perhaps it might have been quite different if you’d been helped, as every
