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 woman should be helped, and given the support of a man’s arm.
THE MOTHER: Oh, once upon a time I had it—but there was too much work to do. My husband and I, together, could hardly cope with it. We didn’t even have time to think of each other; I believe I had forgotten him even before he died.
JAN: That, too, I can understand. But [He hesitates for a moment.]—perhaps if a son had been here to give you a helping hand, you wouldn’t have forgotten him?
MARTHA: Mother, you know we’ve a lot of work to do.
THE MOTHER: A son? Oh, I’m too old, too old! Old women forget to love even their sons. Hearts wear out, sir.
JAN: That’s so. But he, I’m sure, doesn’t forget.
MARTHA [standing between them; peremptorily]: If a son came here, he’d find exactly what an ordinary guest can count on: amiable indifference, no more and no less. All the men we have had here received that, and it satisfied them. They paid for their rooms and were given a key. They didn’t talk about their hearts. [A short silence.] That simplified our work.
THE MOTHER: Don’t talk about that.
JAN [reflectively]: Did they stay here long?
MARTHA: Some of them, a very long time. We did all that was needed for them to stay. Those who weren’t so well off left after the first night. We didn’t do anything for them.
JAN: I’ve plenty of money and I propose to stay some little time in this hotel—if you’re willing to keep me. I forgot to mention that I can pay you in advance.
THE MOTHER: Oh, we never ask people to do that.
MARTHA: If you are rich, so much the better. But no more talk about your heart, please. We can do nothing about that. In fact your way of speaking got so much on my nerves that I very nearly asked you to go. Take your key and make yourself comfortable in your room. But remember you are in a house where the heart isn’t catered to. Too many bleak years have passed over this little spot of Central Europe, and they’ve drained all the warmth out of this house. They have killed any desire for friendliness, and, let me repeat it, you won’t find anything in the least like intimacy here. You will get what the few travelers who lodge with us are used to getting and it has nothing to do with sentiment. So take your key and bear this well in mind: we’re accepting you as a guest, in our quiet way, for interested motives, and if we keep you it will be in our quiet way, for interested motives.
[JAN takes the key and watches her go out.]
THE MOTHER: Don’t pay too much attention to what she says. But it’s a fact there’s some things she never could bear talking about. [She starts to rise. He comes forward to help her.] Don’t trouble, my son; I’m not a cripple yet. Look at my hands; they’re still quite strong. Strong enough to hold up a man’s legs. [A short silence. He is gazing at the key.] Is it what I just said that you’re thinking about?
JAN: No. I’m sorry, I hardly heard it. But, tell me, why did you say “my son” just now?
THE MOTHER: Oh, I shouldn’t have done that, sir. I didn’t mean to take liberties. It was just … a manner of speaking.
JAN: I understand. Now I’ll have a look at my room.
THE MOTHER: Certainly, sir. Our old manservant is waiting for you in the passage. [He gazes at her, on the brink of speaking.] Is there anything you want?
JAN [hesitantly]: Well … no, madame. Except that I’d like to thank you for your welcome.
[He goes out. Left to herself, the MOTHER sits down again, lays her hands on the table, and contemplates them.]
THE MOTHER: That was a queer thing I did just now, talking about my hands. Still, if he had really looked at them, perhaps he’d have guessed what he refused to understand in Martha’s words. But why must this man be so much bent on dying, and I so little on killing? If only he’d leave—then I could have another long night’s rest! I’m too old. Too old to lock my hands again on a man’s ankles and feel the body swaying, swaying, all the way down to the river. Too old for that last effort when we launch him into the water. It will leave me gasping for breath, and every muscle aching, with my arms hanging limp, without even the strength to wipe off the drops that splash up when the sleeping body plunges into the eddies. Too old, too old!… Well, well, since I must, I must! He is the perfect victim and it’s for me to give him the sleep I wanted for my own night. And so …
[MARTHA enters abruptly.]
MARTHA: There you are, daydreaming again! And yet—we’ve much to do.
THE MOTHER: I was thinking of that man. No, really I was thinking of myself.
MARTHA: You’d do better to think about tomorrow. What good was it, not looking at that man, if you can’t keep your thoughts off him? You said yourself, it’s easier to kill what one doesn’t know. Do be sensible.
THE MOTHER: That was one of your father’s favorite words, I remember. But I’d like to feel sure this is the last time we’ll have to be … sensible. It’s odd. When your father used that word it was to drive away the fear of being found out, but when you tell me to be sensible it’s only to quench the little spark of goodness that was kindling in my heart.
MARTHA: What you call a spark of goodness is merely sleepiness. But, only postpone your languor till tomorrow, and then you’ll be able to take things easy for the rest of your days.
THE MOTHER: You’re right, I know. But why should chance have sent us a victim who is so … so unsuitable?
MARTHA: Chance doesn’t enter into it. But I admit this traveler is really too confiding, his innocence is too much of a good thing. What would the world come to if condemned men started unbosoming their sentimental troubles to the hangman? It’s unsound in principle. But it aggravates me, too, and when I’m dealing with him, I’ll bring to bear some of the anger I always feel at the stupidity of men.
THE MOTHER: That, too, is unsound. In the past we brought neither anger nor pity to our task; only the indifference it needed. But tonight I am tired, and you, I see, are angered. Are we really obliged to go through with
