Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  Julie. And here I am now standing chattering to you. Come along now, just out into the park. [She offers him her arm and they go.]

  John. We must sleep to-night on nine Midsummer Night herbs, then our dreams will come true. [Both turn round in the doorway. JOHN holds his hand before one of his eyes.]

  Julie. Let me see what’s got Into your eye.

  John. Oh, nothing, only a bit of dust—it’ll be all right in a minute.

  Julie. It was the sleeve of my dress that grazed you. Just sit down and I’ll help you get it out. [She takes him by the arm and makes him sit down on the table. She then takes his head and presses it down, and tries to get the dust out with the corner of her handkerchief.] Be quite still, quite still! [She strikes him on the hand.] There! Will he be obedient now? I do believe the great strong man’s trembling. [She feels his arm.] With arms like that!

  John. [Warningly.] Miss Julie

  Julie. Yes, Monsieur Jean.

  John. Attention! Je ne suis qu’un homme!

  Julie. Won’t he sit still? See! It’s out now! Let him kiss my hand and thank me.

  John. [Stands up.] Miss Julie, listen to me. Christine has cleared out and gone to bed. Won’t you listen to me?

  Julie. Kiss my hand first.

  John. Listen to me.

  Julie. Kiss my hand first.

  John. All right, but you must be responsible for the consequences.

  Julie. What consequences?

  John. What consequences? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to play with fire?

  Julie. Not for me. I am insured!

  John. [Sharply.] No, you’re not! And even if you were there’s inflammable material pretty close.

  Julie. Do you mean yourself?

  John. Yes. Not that I’m particularly dangerous, but I’m just a young man!

  Julie. With an excellent appearance—what incredible vanity! Don Juan, I suppose, or a Joseph. I believe, on my honor, the man’s a Joseph!

  John. Do you believe that?

  Julie. I almost fear it. [JOHN goes brutally toward and tries to embrace her, so as to kiss her. JULIE boxes his ears.] Hands off.

  John. Are you serious or joking?

  Julie. Serious.

  John. In that case, what took place before was also serious. You’re taking the game much too seriously, and and that’s dangerous. But I’m tired of the game now, so would you please excuse me so that I can go back to my work? [He goes to the back of the stage, to the boots.] The Count must have his boots early, and midnight is long past. [He takes up the boots.]

  Julie. Leave the boots alone.

  John. No. It’s my duty, and I’m bound to do it, but I didn’t take on the job of being your playmate. Besides, the thing is out of the question, as I consider myself much too good for that kind of thing.

  Julie. You’re proud.

  John. In some cases, not in others.

  Julie. Have you ever loved?

  John. We people don’t use that word. But I’ve liked many girls, and once it made me quite ill not to be able to get the girl I wanted, as ill, mind you, as the princes in “The Arabian Nights,” who are unable to eat or drink out of pure love. [He takes up the boots again.]

  Julie. Who was it? [JOHN is silent.]

  John. You can’t compel me to tell you.

  Julie. If I ask you as an equal, as—a friend? Who was it?

  John. You!

  Julie. [Sits down.] How funny!

  John. And if you want to hear the story, here goes! It was humorous. This is the tale, mind you, which I would not tell you before, but I’ll tell you right enough now. Do you know how the world looks from down below? No, of course you don’t. Like hawks and eagles, whose backs a man can scarcely ever see because they’re always flying in the air. I grew up in my father’s hovel along with seven sisters and—a pig—out there on the bare gray field, where there wasn’t a single tree growing, and I could look out from the window on to the walls of the Count’s parks, with its apple-trees. That was my Garden of Eden, and many angels stood there with a flaming sword and guarded it, but all the same I, and other boys, found my way to the Tree of Life—do you despise me?

  Julie. Oh, well—stealing apples? All boys do that.

  John. That’s what you say, but you despise me all the same. Well, what’s the odds! Once I went with my mother inside the garden, to weed out the onion bed. Close by the garden wall there stood a Turkish pavilion, shaded by jasmine and surrounded by wild roses. I had no idea what it was used for, but I’d never seen so fine a building. People went in and out, and one day the door stood open. I sneaked in, and saw the walls covered with pictures of queens and emperors, and red curtains with fringes were in front of the windows—now you know what I mean. I [He takes a lilac branch and holds it under the young lady’s nose.] I’d never been in the Abbey, and I’d never seen anything else but the church—but this was much finer, and wherever my thoughts roamed they always came back again to it, and then little by little the desire sprang up in me to get to know, some time, all this magnificence. En-fin, I sneaked in, saw and wondered, but then somebody came. There was, of course, only one way out for the gentry, but I found another one, and, again, I had no choice. [JULIE, who has taken up the Wac branch, lets it fall on the table.] So I flew, and rushed through a lilac bush, clambered over a garden bed and came out by a terrace of roses. I there saw a light dress and a pair of white stockings—that was you. I laid down under a heap of herbage, right under them. Can you imagine it?—under thistles which stung me and wet earth which stank, and I looked at you where you came between the roses, and I thought if it is true that a murderer can get into the kingdom of heaven, and remain among the angels, it is strange if here, on God’s own earth, a poor lad like me can’t get into the Abbey park and play with the Count’s daughter.

  Julie. [Sentimentally.] Don’t you think that all poor children under similar circumstances have had the same thoughts?

  John. [At first hesitating, then in a tone of conviction.] That all poor children—yes—of course. Certainly.

  Julie. Being poor must be an infinite misfortune.

  John. [With deep pain.] Oh, Miss Julie. Oh! A dog can lie on the Count’s sofa, a horse can be petted by a lady’s hand, on its muzzle, but a boy! [ With a change of tone.] Yes, yes; a man of individuality here and there may have enough stuff in him to come to the top, but how often is that the case? What do you think I did then?—I jumped into the mill-stream, clothes and all, but was fished out and given a thrashing. But the next Sunday, when father and all of the people at home went to grandmother’s, I managed to work it that I stayed at home, and I then had a wash with soap and warm water, put on my Sunday clothes and went to church, where I could get a sight of you. I saw you and went home determined to die, but I wanted to die in a fine and agreeable way, without pain, and I then got the idea that it was dangerous to sleep under a lilac bush. We had one which at that time was in full bloom. I picked all the blooms which it had and then lay down in the oat bin. Have you ever noticed how smooth the oats are? As soft to the hand as human skin. I then shut the lid, and at last went to sleep and woke up really very ill; but I didn’t die, as you see. I don’t know what I really wanted, there was no earthly possibility of winning you. But you were a proof for me of the utter hopelessness of escaping from the circle in which I’d been born.

  Julie. You tell a story charmingly, don’t you knew. Have you been to school?

  John. A little, but I’ve read a lot of novels, and been a lot to the theater. Besides, I’ve heard refined people talk, and I’ve learned most from them.

  Julie. Do you listen, then, to what we say?

  John. Yes, that’s right; and I’ve picked up a great deal when I’ve sat on the coachman’s box or been rowing the boat. I once heard you, Miss, and a young lady friend of yours.

  Julie. Really? What did you hear then?

  John. Well, that I can’t tell you, but I was really somewhat surprised, and I couldn’t understand where you’d
learned all the words from. Perhaps at bottom there isn’t so great a difference between class and class as one thinks.

  Julie. Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! We are not like you are, and we have someone whom we love best.

  John. [Fixes her with his eyes.] Are you so sure of that? You needn’t make yourself out so innocent, Miss, on my account.

  Julie. The man to whom I gave my love was a scoundrel.

  John. Girls always say that—afterward.

  Julie. Always?

  John. Always, I think. I’ve certainly already heard the phrase on several previous occasions, in similar circumstances.

  Julie. What circumstances?

  John. The last time

  Julie. Stop! I won’t hear any more.

  John. She wouldn’t either—it’s remarkable. Oh, well, will you excuse me if I go to bed?

  Julie. [Tartly.] Go to bed on Midsummer Night?

  John. Yes. Dance out there with the riff-raff, that doesn’t amuse me the least bit.

  Julie. Take the key of the boathouse and row me out on the lake. I want to- see the sun rise.

  John. Is that sensible?

  Julie. It seems you’re concerned about your reputation.

  John. Why not? I’m not keen on making myself look ridiculous, nor on being kicked out without a reference, if I want to set up on my own, and it seems to me I have certain obligations to Christine.

  Julie. Oh, indeed! So it’s Christine again?

  John. Yes; but it’s on your account as well. Take my advice and* go- up and go* to bed.

  Julie. Shall I obey you?

  John. This once for your own sake, I ask you; it’s late at night, sleepiness makes one dazed, and one’s blood boils. You go and lie down. Besides, if I can believe my ears, people are coming to find me, and if we are found here you are lost. [Chorus is heard in the distance and gets nearer.]

  “She pleases me like one o’clock,

  My pretty young lidee,

  For thoughts of her my bosom block,

  Her servant must I be,

  For she delights my heart,

  Tiritidi—ralla, tiritidi—ra!

  And now I’ve won the match,

  For which I’ve long been trying,

  The other swains go flying,

  But she comes up to scratch,

  My pretty young lidee,

  Tiritidi—ralla—la—la!”

  Julie. I know our people, and I like them—just in the same way that they like me. Just let them come, then you’ll see.

  John. No, Miss Julie. The folks don’t love you. They eat your bread, but they make fun of you behind your back. You take it from me. Listen, just listen, to what they’re singing. No, you’d better not listen.

  Julie. [Listens.] What are they singing?

  John. It’s some nasty lines about you and me.

  Julie. Horrible! Ugh, what sneaks they are!

  John. The riff-raff is always cowardly, and in the fight it’s best to fly.

  Julie. Fly? But where to? We can’t go out, and we can’t go up to Christine’s room either.

  John. Then come into my room. Necessity knows no law, and you can rely on my being your real, sincere and respectful friend.

  Julie. But just think, would they look for you there?

  John. I’ll bolt the door, and if they try to break it in I’ll shoot. Come. [On his knees.] Come!

  Julie. [Significantly.] Promise me.

  John. On my oath!

  [JULIE rushes off on the left. JOHN follows her in a state of excitement. Pantomime. Wedding party in holiday clothes, with flowers round their hats and a violin player at their head, come in through the glass door. Barrel of small beer and a keg of brandy wreathed with laurel are placed on the table. They take up glasses, they then drink, they then make a ring and a dance is sung and executed. Then they go out, singing again, through the glass door. JULIE comes w done from the left, observes the disorder in the kitchen and claps her hands; she then takes out a powder puff and powders her face. JOHN follows after the young woman from the left, in a state of exaltation.]

  John. There, do you see, you’ve seen it for yourself now. You think it possible to go on staying here?

  Julie. No, I don’t any more. But what’s to be done?

  John. Run away—travel, far away from here.

  Julie. Travel? Yes, but where?

  John. Sweden—the Italian lakes, you’ve never been there, have you?

  Julie. No; is it nice there?

  John. Oh! A perpetual summer—oranges, laurels. Whew!

  Julie. What are we to start doing afterward?

  John. We shall start a first-class hotel there, with first-class visitors.

  Julie. An hotel?

  John. That’s a life, to be sure, you take it from me—an endless succession of new sights, new languages; not a minute to spare for sulking or brooding; not looking for work, for the work comes of its own. The bell goes on ringing day and night, the train puffs, the omnibus comes and goes, while the gold pieces roll’ into the till. That’s a life, to be sure!

  Julie. Yes, that’s what you call life; but what about me?

  John. The mistress of the house, the ornament of the firm, with your appearance and your manners—oh! success is certain. Splendid! You sit like a queen in the counting house, and set all your slaves in motion, with a single touch of your electric bell; the visitors pass in procession by your throne, lay their treasure respectfully on your table; you’ve got no idea how men tremble when they take a bill up in- their hand—I’ll touch up the bills, and you must sugar them with your sweetest laugh. Ah, let’s get away from here. [He takes a time-table out of his pocket.] Right away by the next train, by six-thirty we’re at Malmo; at eight-forty in the morning at Hamburg; Frankfort—one day in Basle and in Como by the St. Gothard Tunnel in—let’s see—three days. Only three days.

  Julie. That all sounds very nice, but, John, you must give me courage, dear. Tell me that you love me, dear; come and take me in your arms.

  John. [Hesitating.] I should like to—but I dare not—not here in the house. I love you, no doubt about it—can you have any real doubt about it, Miss?

  Julie. [With real feminine shame.] Miss? Say “Dear.” There are no longer any barriers between us—say “Dear.”

  John. [In a hurt tone.] I can’t. There are still barriers between us so long as we remain in this house: there is the past—there is my master the Count; I never met a man whom I’ve respected so much—I’ve only got to see his gloves lying on a chair and straight away I feel quite small; I’ve only got to hear the bell up. there and I dash away like a startled horse and—I’ve only got to see his boots standing there, so proud and upright, and I’ve got a pain inside. [He pushes the boots with his feet.] Superstition, prejudice, which have been inoculated into us since our childhood, but which one can’t get rid of. But only come to another country, to a republic, and I’ll make people go on their knees before my porter’s livery—on their knees, do you hear? You’ll see. But not me: I’m not made to go on my knees, for I’ve got grit in me, character, and, once I get on to the first branch, you’ll see me climb right up. To-day I’m a servant, but next year I shall be the proprietor of a hotel; in ten years I shall be independent; then I’ll take a trip to Roumania and get myself decorated, and may—note that I say, may—finish up as a count.

  Julie. Good! Good!

  John. Oh, yes, the title of Count is to be bought in Roumania, and then you will be a- countess—my countess.

  Julie. Tell me that you love me, dear, if you don’t—why, what am I, if you don’t?

  John. I’ll tell you a thousand times later on, but not here. And above all, nor sentimentalism, if everything isn’t to go smash. We must look- at the matter quietly, like sensible people. [He takes out a cigar, cuts off the end, and lights it.] You sit there, I’ll sit here; then we’ll have a little chat just as though nothing had happened.

  Julie. O my God! have you no feeling then?


  John. Me? There’s no man who has more feeling than I have, but I can control myself.

  Julie. A short time back you could kiss my shoe—and now?

  John. [Brutally.] Yes, a little while ago, but now we’ve got something else to think of.

  Julie. Don’t talk brutally to me.

  John. No, but I’ll talk sense. We’ve made fools of ourselves once, don’t let’s do it again. The Count may turn up any minute and we’ve got to map out our lives in advance. What do you think of my plans for the future? Do you agree?

  Julie. They seem quite nice, but one question—you need large capital for so great an undertaking—have you got it?

  John. [Going on- smoking.] Have I got it? Of course I have. I’ve got my special knowledge, my exceptional experience, my knowledge of languages, that’s a capital which is worth something, seems to me.

  Julie. But we can’t buy a. single railway ticket with all that.

  John. That’s true enough, and so I’ll look for somebody who can put up the money.

  Julie. Where can you find a man like that all at once?

  John. Then you’ll have to find him, if you’re going to be my companion.

  Julie. I can’t do that, and I’ve got nothing myself. [Pause.]

  John. In that case the whole scheme collapses.

  Julie. And?

  John. Things remain as they are now.

  Julie. Do you think I’ll go on staying any longer under this roof as your mistress? Do you think I will let the people point their finger at me? Do you think that after this I can look my father in the face? No! Take me away from here, from all this humiliation and dishonor! O my God! What have I done! O my God! My God! [She cries.]

  John. Ho—ho! So that’s the game—what have you done? Just the same as a thousand other people like you.

  Julie. [Screams as though in a paroxysm.] And now you despise me? I’m- falling, I’m falling!

  John. Fall down to my level and then I’ll lift you up again afterward.

  Julie. What awful power dragged me down to you, the power which draws the weak to the strong?—which draws him who falls to him who rises? Or was it love?—love—this! Do you know what love is?