JAN: Sorry. But since we seem to have dropped our convention for the present, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. It strikes me that, for the first time, you’ve been talking to me with—shall I say?—some human feeling.
MARTHA [violently]: Don’t be too sure of that. And even if I have been, you’ve no cause for rejoicing. What you call human feeling is not the nicest part of me. What is human in me is what I desire, and to get what I desire, I’d stick at nothing, I’d sweep away every obstacle on my path.
JAN: I can understand that sort of violence. And I have no cause to let it frighten me, as I’m not an obstacle on your path, and I’ve no motive for opposing your desires.
MARTHA: Certainly you have no reason to oppose them. But it’s equally true you have no reason for furthering them, and, in some cases, that might bring things to a head.
JAN: Why be so sure I have no reason for furthering them?
MARTHA: Common sense tells me that; also my wish to keep you outside my plans.
JAN: Ah! That means, I take it, that we’ve returned to our conventions?
MARTHA: Yes, and we did wrong to depart from them—you can see that for yourself. Now it remains for me to thank you for having spoken of that country where you lived, and I must excuse myself for having, perhaps, wasted your time. [She is on her way to the door.] Still, let me tell you, the time was not wholly wasted. Our talk roused desires in me that were beginning to fall asleep. If you’re really bent on staying here you’ve won your case without knowing it. When I entered this room I had almost decided to ask you to leave, but, as you see, you’ve played on my human feelings; now I hope you’ll stay. And so my longing for the sea and sunshine will be the gainer by it.
[He gazes at her without speaking for a moment.]
JAN [thoughtfully]: You have a very strange way of talking. Still, if I may, and if your mother, too, has no objection, I’ll stay on.
MARTHA: My mother’s desires are weaker than mine; that’s only natural. She doesn’t think enough about the sea and those lonely beaches to make her realize you have got to stay. So she hasn’t the same motives for wanting to keep you. But, at the same time, she hasn’t any really strong motive for opposing me; and that will settle it.
JAN: So, if I’ve not misunderstood, one of you will let me stay for the sake of money, and the other through indifference.
MARTHA: What more can a traveler expect? But there’s truth in what you said.
[She opens the door.]
JAN: Well, I suppose I should be glad of that. Still perhaps you’ll let me say that everything here strikes me as very strange; the people and their way of speaking. Really this is a queer house.
MARTHA: Perhaps that’s only because you are behaving queerly in it.
[She goes out.]
JAN [looking toward the door]: Maybe she’s right. I wonder, though. [Goes to the bed and sits down.] Really the one wish that girl has given me is the wish to leave at once, to return to Maria and our happiness together. I’ve been behaving stupidly. What business have I to be here?… No, I have a reason, a good reason; I owe a duty to my mother and sister. I’ve neglected them too long. It’s up to me to do something for them, to atone for my neglect. It’s not enough in such cases to declare oneself: “It’s I.” One has to make oneself loved, as well. [He rises.] Yes, this is the room in which all will be decided. A wretchedly cold room, by the way. I can’t recognize anything in it. Everything’s been changed, and now it might be a bedroom in any one of those commercial hotels where men by themselves stay a night in passing. I’ve had experience of them, and I always used to think there was something they had to say—something like an answer or a message. Perhaps I shall get the answer here, tonight. [He looks out of the window.] Clouding up, I see. It’s always like this in a hotel bedroom; the evenings are depressing for a lonely man. I can feel it again, that vague uneasiness I used to feel in the old days—here, in the hollow of my chest—like a raw place that the least movement irritates.… And I know what it is. It’s fear, fear of the eternal loneliness, fear that there is no answer. And who could there be to answer in a hotel bedroom? [He has moved to the bell; after some hesitation he puts his finger on the bell push. For a while there is silence; then one hears approaching footsteps, a knock. The door opens. The OLD MANSERVANT is standing on the threshold. He neither moves nor speaks.] It’s nothing. Sorry to have disturbed you. I only wanted to see if the bell was working and anyone would answer. [The old man stares at him, then closes the door. Receding footsteps.] The bell works, but he doesn’t speak. That’s no answer. [He looks at the sky.] The clouds are banking up still. A solid mass of darkness that will burst and fall upon the earth. What should I do? Which is right: Maria or my dreams? [Two knocks on the door. MARTHA enters with a tray.] What’s this?
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
