MARTHA Yes. I’m listening. For the sound of the water.
MOTHER It’ll come, soon enough. In one short minute. And while that minute lasts, happiness is in our grasp.
MARTHA Happiness comes after, not before.
MOTHER Did you know, Martha, he was going to leave tonight?
MARTHA No, I didn’t. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’d still have gone ahead. I’d made up my mind.
MOTHER He told me just now. I didn’t know what to say. MARTHA You saw him, then?
MOTHER I came up here to stop him drinking the tea. But I was too late.
MARTHA Yes, much too late. I might as well tell you. He made the decision for me. I still wasn’t sure. But he started to talk of the land I’ve been waiting for, and he gave me the weapons I was wanting. He touched my heart, and that was enough. Innocence has its reward.
MOTHER And yet, Martha, by the end I think he knew. He said to me himself that he didn’t feel at home here.
MARTHA (with growing impatience, in a strong voice) Well he was right, wasn’t he ? This isn’t his home. It isn’t anyone’s home. No-one could ever find warmth or satisfaction here. And if he’d understood that a little bit sooner, he’d have spared us the trouble of teaching him a lesson. He’d have known for himself that a room like this is made for sleeping in, and a world like this for dying. But that’ll do for now. We’ve got a …(The sound of the river can now be heard in the distance.)
Listen! The water’s running over the weir! It’s time to move, mother. And for the love of that God that you call on now and then, let get it over with.
(The mother moves towards the bed.)
MOTHER You’re right. We’d better move. There’s a long night ahead. And the way I feel, it seems to me that the dawn may never
come.
End of Act Two
Act Three
(The mother, Martha, and the Old Man are all on stage. The Old Man is cleaning and tidying. The sister stands behind the desk, putting up her hair.)
Scene one
(The mother walks across the stage towards the door.) MARTHA You see? The dawn has arrived.
MOTHER Yes. Tomorrow I’ll appreciate what a fine thing it is to have the whole thing behind us. But for the moment, I just feel tired.
MARTHA What have I been doing for all these years? This morning I can breathe! I could almost imagine that I can hear the sea already. It makes me want to shout for joy.
MOTHER I’m glad for you, Martha. Glad for your sake. But I’m too old to share it with you. Much too old. I’ll feel better tomorrow.
MARTHA I hope you will. But don’t be such a misery. I want to indulge myself. Why shouldn’t I be happy? I feel like the girl I was.
My body’s on fire. I must do something. Run somewhere… Mother… (She breaks off.)
MOTHER What is it, Martha? I hardly know you now.
MARTHA Tell me something. (She hesitates, and then, with pride) Am I still as attractive as I was? Am I beautiful?
MOTHER Yes, you are. This morning you are. Crime has its own beauty. MARTHA What’s crime to me now? That’s all past. This is the morning of another life. Happiness is waiting. I’m going back where I belong.
MOTHER Good. I’m going to have a rest. But it’s good to see that life has begun again. If only for you.
(The Old Man appears at the top of the stairs and comes down towards Martha. He hands her the passport, and then goes out. He doesn’t say a word. Martha opens the passport and reads, with no visible reaction.)
MOTHER What is it?
MARTHA (calmly) His passport. Read it. MOTHER My eyes are tired, you know that… MARTHA Read it! You’ll recognise the name.
(The mother takes the passport, and sits down at the table. She spreads it open and reads. She stares at the pages in front of her for a very long time.)
MOTHER (in a voice empty of emotion) There you are. I knew this would happen. I knew we should have stopped.
MARTHA (coming round to stand in front of the desk) Mother!
MOTHER (in the same voice) It’s no good, Martha. I’ve lived too long, longer than my son. I didn’t know who he was and so I killed him. The only thing left to do is join him, at the bottom of river, where the weeds are winding round his face.
MARTHA Mother! You can’t leave me on my own!
MOTHER You’ve been a great help to me, Martha. I’ll be sorry to leave you. If it still means anything to say this, I should like to put it on record that in your own way you’ve been a good daughter. I couldn’t have asked for more. But I’m worn out. I’m much too old to take more sorrow. I was his mother. And when a mother fails to know her son, her function in this life has come to an end.
MARTHA No, it has not! She still has a part to play in her daughter’s happiness. What are you saying? I can’t understand this! You of all people, who taught me not to care for anything.
MOTHER (in the same voice, devoid of all personality) Yes, I did. But I’ve just learnt that I was wrong, and that in this world where nothing can be guaranteed some things are certain. (With bitterness.) And the love of a mother for her son is one of those certainties.
MARTHA And is there no other? What of a mother’s love for her daughter?
MOTHER I don’t want to hurt you at this moment, Martha, but the truth is that it’s not the same thing. It’s much less strong. How could I have strayed so far from the love of my own son?
MARTHA (in an outburst) You call that love? He never gave you a moment’s thought in all of twenty years!
MOTHER Yes. That’s love. Anything that could last through twenty years of silence deserves the name of love. But none of this matters. Love or not love, it’s good enough for me, since I can’t face living without him.
(She gets up.)
MARTHA This isn’t possible. I don’t believe it. Is there no fight left in you? You can’t say all of that without a thought for your daughter!
MOTHER I’ve no thought for anything, and no desire to fight. This is punishment, Martha. Our punishment. This is the moment that comes to all murderers, when they stand like me, empty inside, sterile, with no possible future. That’s why we put them down. They’re no good for anything.
MARTHA I’ve never heard you speak like this. It’s contemptible. I can’t bear to hear you talk of punishment and crime.
MOTHER I’m speaking as I feel. It’s as simple as that. I’ve lost my freedom, and hell has begun.
MARTHA (coming up to her, passionately) You’ve never spoken like this before. For all these years you’ve kept close to me and held in your hands the weight of the bodies that were destined to die. You never hung back. You never thought then of freedom and hell. You kept on going. How can your son change all of that?
MOTHER I kept on going. Tbat’s true. But it was only out of habit. Like a living death. One touch of sorrow was enough to convert me. That’s the change my son has brought. (Martha tries to interrupt her.)
I know, Martha, I know. None of it is reasonable. What has a criminal to do with sorrow? But you see, it’s not really a mother’s sorrow. Where are the tears? No, it’s just the pain of giving birth again to love and watching as it leaves you. Another kind of suffering that can’t be called reasonable. (In a changed voice.) But the world itself isn’t reasonable. And I can say it, if anyone can. Because I’ve tasted all of it, from creation to destruction.
(She turns decisively towards the door, but Martha steps in front of her and bars her exit.)
MARTHA No. Mother, you can’t leave me. You won’t leave me. Don’t forget, I’m the one who stayed. He deserted you. You’ve had me near you all your life, while he left you in silence. That’s a debt that must be paid. It must count in the reckoning. The movement you make must be towards me.
MOTHER (quietly) I can’t deny any of it, Martha. But he’s dead, and I killed him.
(Martha turns slightly, and stands downcast, with her head inclined towards the door.)
MARTHA (after a long silence, with increasing passion) All that life can give he had given to him. He left this country. He knew the feel of open space, he knew the sea. The people that he lived
