MARTHA-I realize all that, Curt.
CURTIS-You can't-and hesitate! And then-think, Martha!-it will mean that you and I won't have to be separated. We can go on living the old, free life together.
MARTHA-[Growing calm now.]You are forgetting-what I told you, Curt. You must face the fact. I cannot go.
CURTIS-[Overwhelmed by the finality of her tone-after a pause.]How long have you known-this?
MARTHA-Two months, about.
CURTIS-But why didn't you tell me before?
MARTHA-I was afraid you wouldn't understand-and you haven't, Curt. But why didn't you tell me before-what you were planning?
CURTIS-[Eagerly.]You mean-then-you would have been glad to go- before this had happened?
MARTHA-I would have accepted it.
CURTIS-[Despairingly.]Martha, how could you ever have allowed this to happen? Oh, I suppose I'm talking foolishness. It wasn't your seeking, I know.
MARTHA-Yes it was, Curt. I wished it. I sought it.
CURTIS-[Indignantly.]Martha![Then in a hurt tone.] You have broken the promise we made when they died. We were to keep their memories inviolate. They were to be always-our only children.
MARTHA-[Gently.]They forgive me, Curt. And you will forgive me, too-when you see him-and love him.
CURTIS-Him?
MARTHA-I know it will be a boy.
CURTIS-[Sinking down on the couch beside her-dully.]Martha! You have blown my world to bits.
MARTHA-[Taking one of his hands in hers-gently.]You must make allowances for me. Curt, and forgive me. I AM getting old. No, it's the truth. I've reached the turning point. Will you listen to my side of it, Curt, and try to see it-with sympathy-with true understanding-[With a trace of bitterness.]-forgetting your work for the moment?
CURTIS-[Miserably.]That's unfair, Martha. I think of it as OUR work-and I have always believed you did, too.
MARTHA-[Quickly.]I did, Curt! I do! All in the past is our work. It's my greatest pride to think so. But, Curt, I'll have to confess frankly-during the past two years I've felt myself- feeling as if I wasn't complete-with that alone.
CURTIS-Martha![Bitterly.] And all the time I believed that more and more it was becoming the aim of your life, too.
MARTHA-[With a sad smile.]I'm glad of that, dear. I tried my best to conceal it from you. It would have been so unfair to let you guess while we were still in harness. But oh, how I kept looking forward to the time when we would come back-and rest-in our own home! You know-you said that was your plan-to stay here and write your books-and I was hoping-
CURTIS-[With a gesture of aversion.]I loathe this book-writing. It isn't my part, I realize now. But when I made the plans you speak of, how could I know that then?
MARTHA-[Decisively.]You've got to go. I won't try to stop you. I'll help all in my power-as I've always done. Only-I can't go with you any more. And you must help me-to do my work-by understanding it.[He is silent, frowning, his face agitated, preoccupied. She goes on intensely.] Oh, Curt, I wish I could tell you what I feel, make you feel with me the longing for a child. If you had just the tiniest bit of feminine in you-![Forcing a smile.] But you're so utterly masculine, dear! That's what has made me love you, I suppose-so I've no right to complain of it.[Intensely.] I don't. I wouldn't have you changed one bit! I love you! And I love the things you love-your work-because it's a part of you. And that's what I want you to do-to reciprocate-to love the creator in me-to desire that I, too, should complete myself with the thing nearest my heart!
CURTIS-[Intensely preoccupied with his own struggle-vaguely.]But I thought-
MARTHA-I know; but, after all, your work is yours, not mine. I have been only a helper, a good comrade, too, I hope, but- somehow-outside of it all. Do you remember two years ago when we were camped in Yunnan, among the aboriginal tribes? It was one night there when we were lying out in our sleeping-bags up in the mountains along the Tibetan frontier. I couldn't sleep. Suddenly I felt oh, so tired-utterly alone-out of harmony with you-with the earth under me. I became horribly despondent-like an outcast who suddenly realizes the whole world is alien. And all the wandering about the world, and all the romance and excitement I'd enjoyed in it, appeared an aimless, futile business, chasing around in a circle in an effort to avoid touching reality. Forgive me, Curt. I meant myself, not you, of course. Oh, it was horrible, I tell you, to feel that way. I tried to laugh at myself, to fight it off, but it stayed and grew worse. It seemed as if I were the only creature alive-who was not alive. And all at once the picture came of a tribeswoman who stood looking at us in a little mountain village as we rode by. She was nursing her child. Her eyes were so curiously sure of herself. She was horribly ugly, poor woman, and yet-as the picture came back to me-I appeared to myself the ugly one while she was beautiful. And I thought of our children who had died-and such a longing for another child came to me that I began sobbing. You were asleep. You didn't hear.[She pauses-then proceeds slowly.] And when we came back here-to have a home at last, I was so happy because I saw my chance of fulfillment-before it was too late.[In a gentle, pleading voice.] Now can you understand, dear?[She puts her hand on his arm.]
CURTIS-[Starting as if awaking from a sleep.]Understand? No, I can't understand, Martha.
MARTHA-[In a gasp of unbearable hurt.]Curt! I don't believe you heard a word I was saying.
CURTIS-[Bursting forth as if releasing all the pent-up struggle that has been gathering within him.]No, I can't understand. I cannot, cannot! It seems like treachery to me.
MARTHA-Curt!
CURTIS-I've depended on you. This is the crucial point-the biggest thing of my life-and you desert me!
MARTHA-[Resentment gathering in her eyes.]If you had listened to me-if you had even tried to feel-
CURTIS-I feel that you are deliberately ruining my highest hope. How can I go on without you? I've been trying to imagine myself alone. I can't! Even with my work-who can I get to take your place? Oh, Martha, why do you have to bring this new element into our lives at this late day? Haven't we been sufficient, you and I together? Isn't that a more difficult, beautiful happiness to achieve than-children? Everyone has children. Don't I love you as much as any man could love a woman? Isn't that enough for you? Doesn't it mean anything to you that I need you so terribly-for myself, for my work-for everything that is best and worthiest in me? Can you expect me to be glad when you propose to introduce a stranger who will steal away your love, your interest-who will separate us and deprive me of you! No, no, I cannot! It's asking the impossible. I am only human.