MARTHA: Not for money, but for a home beside the sea, and forgetfulness of this hateful country. You may be tired of living, but I, too, am tired, tired to death of these narrow horizons. I feel I couldn’t endure another month here. Both of us are sick of this inn and everything to do with it. You, who are old, want no more than to shut your eyes and to forget. But I can still feel in my heart some of the absurd desires I had when I was twenty, and I want to act in such a way as to have done with them forever—even if, for that, we must go a little further with the life we want to leave. And really it’s your duty to help me; it was you who brought me into the world in a land of clouds and mist, instead of a land of sunshine.
THE MOTHER: Martha, I almost wonder if it wouldn’t be better for me to be forgotten, as I’ve been forgotten by your brother, than to hear you speaking to me in that tone, the tone of an accuser.
MARTHA: You know well I did not mean to wound you. [A short silence; then passionately] What could I do without you? What would become of me if you were far away? I, anyhow, could never, never forget you, and if at times the strain of this life we lead makes me fail in the respect I owe you, I beg you, mother, to forgive me.
THE MOTHER: You are a good daughter, Martha, and I can well believe that an old woman is sometimes hard to understand. But, I feel this is the moment to tell you what I’ve been trying all this time to say: “Not tonight.”
MARTHA: What! Are we to wait till tomorrow? You know quite well you’ve never had such an idea before; and it would never do for him to have time to meet people here. No, we must act while we have him to ourselves.
THE MOTHER: Perhaps. I don’t know. But not tonight. Let him be for this one night. It will give us a reprieve. And perhaps it’s through him we shall save ourselves.
MARTHA: Save ourselves? Why should we want to do that, and what an absurd thing to say! All you can hope for is to gain by what you do tonight the right to sleep your fill, once it’s over.
THE MOTHER: That’s what I meant by “saving ourselves.” To retain the hope of sleep.
MARTHA: Good! Then I swear it’s in our hands to work out our salvation. Mother, we must have done with indecision. Tonight it shall be; or not at all.
CURTAIN
ACT II
A bedroom at the inn. Dusk is falling. JAN is gazing out of the window.
JAN: Maria was right. This evening hour tells on the nerves. [A short pause.] I wonder what her thoughts are, what she is up to, in that other hotel bedroom. I picture her huddled up in a chair; she’s not crying, but her heart’s like ice. Over there the nightfall brought a promise of happiness. But here.… [Looks round the room.] Nonsense! I’ve no reason for feeling this uneasiness. When a man starts something, he has no business to look back. It’s in this room everything will be settled.
[A sharp rap on the door. MARTHA comes in.]
MARTHA: I hope I’m not disturbing you. I only wanted to change the towels and fill your jug.
JAN: Oh, I thought it had been done.
MARTHA: No. The old man who works for us sometimes forgets things like that.
JAN: They’re only details, anyhow.… But I hardly dare to tell you that you’re not disturbing me.
MARTHA: Why?
JAN: I’m not sure that’s allowed for in our … our agreement.
MARTHA: You see! You can’t answer like any ordinary person, even when you want to make things easy.
JAN [smiling]: Sorry. I shall have to train myself. Only you must give me a little time.
MARTHA [busy with the room]: Yes, that’s the whole point. [He turns and looks out of the window. She studies him. His back is to her. She continues speaking as she works.] I’m sorry, sir, that this room is not as comfortable as you might wish.
JAN: It’s spotlessly clean, and that is something one appreciates. Unless I’m much mistaken, you had it done up not very long ago.
MARTHA: Quite true. But how can you tell that?
JAN: Oh, by some details.
MARTHA: Anyhow, many of our guests grumble because there isn’t running water, and I can hardly blame them. Also, there should be a lamp above the bed; for some time we’ve been meaning to have one installed. It must be rather a nuisance for people who’re used to reading in bed to have to get up to switch the light off.
JAN [turning toward her]: That’s so. I hadn’t noticed. Still it’s not a very serious drawback.
MARTHA: It’s kind of you to take it like that. I am glad the defects of our hotel don’t trouble you; in fact you seem to notice them less than we do. I’ve known people whom they’d have been enough to drive away.
JAN: I hope you’ll let me make a remark that goes beyond our pact—and say that you’re a very surprising person. One certainly doesn’t expect hotelkeepers to go out of their way to point out defects in the accommodation. Really it almost looks as if you wanted to make me leave.
MARTHA: That wasn’t quite what I had in mind. [Coming to a sudden decision.] But it’s a fact that mother and I are rather reluctant to have you here.
JAN: I must say I noticed that you weren’t doing much to keep me. Still, I can’t imagine why. You have no reason to doubt my solvency, and I hardly think I give the impression of someone with a crime on his conscience.
MARTHA: Certainly not. If you must know, not only don’t you look in the least like a criminal, but you produce the opposite effect—of complete innocence. Our reasons were quite different from what you think. We intend to leave this hotel shortly and we’ve been meaning every day to close down, so as to start preparing for the move. That had no difficulties, as we get so few visitors. But we could never quite make up our minds. It’s your coming that has made us realize how thoroughly we’d abandoned any idea of going on with the business.
JAN: Am I to understand you definitely want to see me go?
MARTHA: As I said, we can’t decide; I, especially, can’t decide. Actually everything depends on me and I haven’t made up my mind yet, one way or the other.
JAN: Please remember this; I don’t want to be a burden on you and I shall behave exactly as you wish. However, I’d like to say that it will suit me if I can stay here for one or two days. I have some problems to thrash out before moving on, and I counted on finding here the peace and quietness I need.
MARTHA: I quite understand your desire, I assure you, and, if you like, I’ll reconsider the matter. [A short silence. She takes some steps hesitantly toward the door.] Am I right in thinking you’ll go back to the country from which you’ve come?
JAN: Yes—if necessary.
MARTHA: It’s a pretty country, isn’t it?
JAN [looking out of the window]: Yes, a very pretty country.
MARTHA: Is it true that there are long stretches of the coast where you never meet a soul?
JAN: Quire true. There’s nothing to remind you that men exist. Sometimes at dawn you find the traces of birds’ feet on the sand. Those are the only signs of life. And in the evenings …
MARTHA [softly]: Yes? What are the evenings like?
JAN: Marvelous, indescribable! Yes, it’s a lovely country.
MARTHA [in a tone she has not used before]: I’ve thought of it, often and often. Travelers have told me things, and I’ve read what I could. And often, in the harsh, bleak spring we have here, I dream of the sea and the flowers over there. [After a short silence, in a low, pensive voice] And what I picture makes me blind to everything around me.
[After gazing at her thoughtfully for some moments, JAN sits down facing her.]
JAN: I can understand that. Spring over there grips you by the throat and flowers burst into bloom by thousands, above the white walls. If you roamed the hills that overlook my town for only an hour or so, you’d bring back in your clothes a sweet, honeyed smell of yellow roses.
[MARTHA, too, sits down.]
MARTHA: How wonderful that must be! What we call spring here is one rose and a couple of buds struggling to keep alive in the monastery garden. [Scornfully] And that’s enough to stir the hearts of the men in this part of the world. Their hearts are as stingy as that rose tree. A breath of richer air would wilt them; they have the springtime they deserve.
JAN: You’re not quite fair; you have the autumn, too.
MARTHA: What’s the autumn?
JAN: A second spring when every leaf’s a flower. [He looks at her keenly.] Perhaps it’s the same thing with some hearts; perhaps they’d blossom if you helped them with your patience.
MARTHA: I’ve no patience for this dreary Europe, where autumn has the face of spring and the spring smells of poverty. No, I prefer to picture those other lands over which summer breaks in flame, where the winter rains flood the cities, and where … things are
