THE MOTHER: That was only natural, sir, and I’m sure you understand I had no personal reasons for showing any ill will.
JAN [with restrained emotion]: That may be so—I hope so. But, if I told you that, it is because I want us to part on good terms. Later on, perhaps, I’ll come back. In fact I’m sure I shall. And then things will certainly go better, and I’ve no doubt we shall find pleasure in meeting again. But just now I feel that I have made a mistake, I have no business being here. In a word—though this may strike you as an odd way of putting it—I have a feeling that this house isn’t for me.
THE MOTHER: I know what you mean, sir. But usually one feels that sort of thing immediately; you have been rather slow, it seems to me, to discover it.
JAN: I agree. But just now I’m rather at sea. I’ve come to Europe on some urgent business, and it’s always a bit disconcerting, returning to a country after years and years of absence. I trust you understand what I mean.
THE MOTHER: Yes, I do understand, and I’d have liked things to turn out as you wished. But I think that, as far as we’re concerned, there’s nothing more we can do about it.
JAN: So it seems, I admit. Still, really, one never can be sure.
THE MOTHER: Anyhow, I think we have done everything needed to have you stay with us.
JAN: Indeed you have, and I’ve nothing to complain of. The truth is that you are the first people I have met since my return, so it’s natural my first taste of the difficulties ahead should come when I’m with you. Obviously I alone am to blame for this; I haven’t found my feet yet.
THE MOTHER: It’s often like that in life; one makes a bad start, and nobody can do anything about it. In a way it’s quite true that what has happened vexes me as well. But I tell myself that, after all, I’ve no reason to attach importance to it.
JAN: Well, it’s something that you share my discomfort and that you try to understand me. I can hardly tell you how touched I am by your attitude, and how much I appreciate it. [He stretches his hand toward her.] Really I …
THE MOTHER: Oh, what you call my attitude’s quite natural, really. It’s our duty to make ourselves agreeable to our guests.
JAN [in a disappointed tone]: That’s so. [A short silence.] So it comes to this: all I owe you is an apology and, if you think fit, some compensation. [He draws his hand over his forehead. He seems exhausted and is speaking less easily.] You may have made preparations, gone to some expense; so it’s only fair.…
THE MOTHER: The only preparations we’ve made are those we always make in such cases. And I can assure you that you owe us no compensation. It was not on our account that I was regretting your indecision, but on yours.
JAN [leaning against the table]: Oh, that doesn’t matter. The great thing is that we understand each other and I won’t leave you with too bad an impression of myself. Personally I shall not forget this house—be sure of that—and I hope that when I return I’ll be in a better mood to appreciate it. [She goes to the door without speaking.] Madame! [She turns. He speaks with some difficulty, but ends more easily than he began.] I’d like.… Excuse me, but my journey’s tired me. [Sits on the bed.] I’d like anyhow to thank you for the tea, and for the welcome you have given me. And I’d also like you to know that I won’t leave this house feeling like a stranger.
THE MOTHER: Really, sir, being thanked for something due to a mistake is always embarrassing.
[She goes out. JAN watches her, makes as if to move, but one can see he is feeling limp. Then, leaning his elbow on the pillow, he seems to abandon himself to his growing lethargy.]
JAN: Yes, I must handle it quite simply, quite straight forwardly. Tomorrow I’ll come here with Maria and I shall say “It’s I.” There’s nothing to prevent my making them happy. Maria was right; I can see that now. [He sighs and leans back on the pillow.] I don’t like the feel of this evening; everything seems so far away. [He stretches himself full-length on the bed, murmuring almost inaudibly.] Yes, or no? [After tossing about a little, JAN falls asleep. The room is in almost complete darkness. A long silence. The door opens. The two women enter with a lamp.]
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
