Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  John. I? Do you really suggest that I meant that? Don’t you think I’d have felt it already long ago?

  Julie. What phrases to be sure, and what thoughts!

  John. That’s what I learned and that’s what I am. But just keep your nerve and don’t play the fine lady. We’ve got into a mess and we’ve got to get out of it. Look here, my girl. Come here, I’ll give you an extra glass, my dear. [He opens the sideboard, takes out the bottle of wine and fills two of the dirty glasses.]

  Julie. Where did you get the wine from?

  John. The cellar.

  Julie. My father’s Burgundy!

  John. Is it too good for his son-in-law? I don’t think!

  Julie. And I’ve been drinking beer!

  John. That only shows that you’ve got worse taste than me.

  Julie. Thief!

  John. Want to blab?

  Julie. Oh, oh! the accomplice of a house-thief. I drank too much last night and I did things in my dream. Midsummer Night, the feast of innocent joys John. Innocent! Hm!

  Julie. [Walks up and down.] Is there at this moment a human being as unhappy as I am?

  John. Why are you? After such a fine conquest. Just think of Christine in there, don’t you think she’s got feelings as well?

  Julie. I used to think so before, but I don’t think so any more—no, a servant’s a servant

  John. And a whore’s a whore.

  Julie. O God in heaven! Take my miserable life! Take me out of this filth in which I’m sinking. Save me, save me!

  John. I can’t gainsay but that you make me feel sorry. Once upon a time when I lay in the onion bed and saw you in the rose garden then—I’ll tell you straight—I had the same dirty thoughts as all youngsters.

  Julie. And then you wanted tor die for me!

  John. In the oat bin? That was mere gas.

  Julie. Lies, you mean.

  John. [Begins to get sleepy.] Near enough. I read the story once in the paper about a chimney-sweep who laid down in a chest full of lilac because he was ordered to take additional nourishment.

  Julie. Yes—so you are

  John. What other idea should I have thought of? One’s always got to capture a gal with flatteries.

  Julie. Scoundrel!

  John. Whore!

  Julie. So I must be the first branch, must I?

  John. But the branch was rotten.

  Julie. I’ve got to be the notice board of the hotel, have I?

  John. I’m going to be the hotel.

  Julie. Sit in your office, decoy your customers, fake your bills.

  John. I’ll see to that myself.

  Julie. To think that a human being can be so thoroughly dirty!

  John. Wash yourself clean.

  Julie. Lackey! Menial! Stand up—you, when I’m speaking!

  John. You wench of a menial! Hold your jaw and clear out! Is it for you to come ragging me that I’m rough? No one in my station of life could have made herself so cheap as the way you carried on to-night, my girl. Do you think that a clean-minded girl excites men in the way that you do? Have you ever seen a girl in my position offer herself in the way you did?

  Julie. [Humiliated.] That’s right, strike me, trample on me! I haven’t deserved anything better. I’m a wretched woman. But help me! Help me to get away, if there’s any chance of it.

  John. [More gently.] I don’t want to deny my share in the honor of having seduced you, but do you think that a person in my position would have dared to have raised his eyes to you if you yourself hadn’t invited him to do it? I’m still quite amazed.

  Julie. And proud.

  John. Why not? Although I must acknowledge that the victory was too easy to make me get a swelled head over it.

  Julie. Strike me once more!

  John. [He gets up.] No, I’d rather ask you to forgive me what I’ve already said. I don’t hit a defenceless person, and least of all a girl. I can’t deny that from one point of view I enjoyed seeing that it was not gold but glitter which dazzled us all down below; to have seen that the back, of the hawk was only drab, and that there was powder on those dainty cheeks, and that those manicured nails could have grimy tips, that the handkerchief was dirty, even though it did smell of scent! But it pained me, on the other hand, to have seen that the thing I’d been striving for was not something higher, something sounder; it pains me to have seen you sink so deep that you are far beneath your own cook; it pains me to see that the autumn flowers have crumpled up in the rain and turned into a mess.

  Julie. You’re talking as though you were already my superior.

  John. I am; look here, I could change you into a countess, but you could never make me into a count!

  Julie. But I am bred from a count, and that you can never be.

  John. That’s true, but I could produce counts myself if—

  Julie. But you’re a thief, and I’m not.

  John. There are worse things than being a thief; that’s not the worst, besides, if I’m serving in a household, I look upon myself in a manner of speaking as one of the family, as a child of the house, and it isn’t regarded as stealing if a child picks a berry from a large bunch. [His passion wakes up afresh.] Miss Julie, you’re a magnificent woman, much too good for the likes of me. You’ve been the prey of a mad fit and you want to cover up your mistake, and that’s why you’ve got it into your head you love me, but you don’t. Of course, it may be that only my personal charms attract you—and in that case your love is not a bit better than mine; but I can never be satisfied with being nothing more to you than a mere beast, and I can’t get your love.

  Julie. Are you sure of it?

  John. You mean it might come about? I might love you? Yes, no doubt about it, you’re pretty, you’re refined. [He> approaches her and takes her hand.] Nice, when you want to be, and when you have roused desire in a man the odds are that it will never be extinguished. [He embraces her.] You are like burning wine, with strong herbs in it, and a kiss from you [He tries to lead her on to the left, but she struggles free.]

  Julie. Let me alone! That’s not the way to win me!

  John. In what way then? Not in that way? Not with caresses and pretty words—not with forethought for the future, escape from disgrace? In what way then?

  Julie. In what way? In what way? I don’t know—I have no idea. I loathe you like vermin, but I can’t be without you.

  John. Run away with me.

  Julie. [Adjusts her. dress.] Run away? Yes, of course we’ll run away. But I’m so tired. Give me a glass of wine. [JOHN pours out the wine. JULIE looks at her watch.] But we must talk first, we’ve still a little time to spare. [She drinks up the glass and holds it out for some more.]

  John. Don’t drink to such excess—you’ll get drunk!

  Julie. What does it matter?

  John. What does it matter? It’s cheap to get drunk. What do you want to say to me then?

  Julie. We’ll run away, but we’ll talk first, that means I will talk, because up to now you’ve done all the talking yourself. You’ve told me about your life, now I’ll tell you about mine. Then we shall know each other thoroughly, before we start on our joint wanderings.

  John. One moment. Excuse me, just think if you won’t be sorry afterward for giving away all the secrets of your life.

  Julie. Aren’t you my friend?

  John. Yes, for a short time. Don’t trust me.

  Julie. You don’t mean what you say. Besides, everybody knows my secrets. Look here, my mother was not of noble birth, but quite simple, she was brought up in the theories of her period about the equality and freedom of woman and all the rest of it. Then she had a distinct aversion to marriage. When my father proposed to her, she answered that she would never become his wife, but—she did. I came into the world—against the wish of my mother so far as I could understand. The next was, that I was brought up by my mother to lead what she called a child’s natural life, and to do that, I had to learn everything that a boy has to learn, so that I could be a liv
ing example of her theory that a woman is as good as a man. I could go about in boys’ clothes. I learned to groom horses, but I wasn’t allowed to go into the dairy. I had to scrub and harness horses and go hunting. Yes, and at times I had actually to try and learn farm-work, and at home the men were given women’s work and the women were given men’s work—the result was that the property began to go down and we became the laughing-stock of the whole neighborhood. At last my father appears to have wakened up out of his trance and to have rebelled; then everything was altered to suit his wishes. My mother became ill. I don’t know what the illness was, but she often suffered from seizures, hid herself in the grounds and in the garden, and remained in the open air the whole night. Then came the great fire, which you must have heard about. House, farm buildings and stables all were burnt, and under circumstances, mind you, which gave a suspicion of arson, because the accident happened the day after the expiration of the quarterly payment of the insurance instalment, and the premiums which my father had sent were delayed through the carelessness of the messenger, so that they did not get there in time. [She fills her glass and drinks.]

  John. Don’t drink any more.

  Julie. Oh, what does it matter? We were without shelter and had to sleep in the carriage. My father didn’t know where he was to get the money to build a house again. Then my mother advised him to approach a friend of her youth for a loan, a tile manufacturer in the neighborhood. Father got the loan, but didn’t have to pay any interest, which made him quite surprised, and then the house was built. [She drinks again.] You know who set fire to the house?

  John. My lady your mother.

  Julie. Do you know who the tile manufacturer was?

  John. Your mother’s lover.

  Julie. Do you know whose the money was?

  John. Wait a minute. No, that I don’t know.

  Julie. My mother’s.

  John. The Count’s then?—unless they were living with separate estates?

  Julie. They weren’t doing that. My mother had a small fortune, which she didn’t allow my father to handle, and she invested it with—the friend.

  John. Who banked it.

  Julie. Quite right. This all came to my father’s ears, but he could not take any legal steps; he couldn’t pay his wife’s lover, he couldn’t prove that it was his wife’s money. That was my mother’s revenge for his using force against her at home. He then made up his mind to shoot himself. The report went about that he had wanted to do it, but hadn’t succeeded. He remained alive then-, and my mother had to settle for what she’d done. That was a bad time for me* as you can imagine. I sympathized with my father, but I sided with my mother, as I didn’t understand the position. I learnt from her to mistrust and hate men, for, so far as I could hear, she always hated men—and I swore to her that I would never be a man’s slave.

  John. And then you became engaged to Kronvogt?

  Julie. For the simple reason that he was 1 to have been my slave.

  John. And he wouldn’t have it?

  Julie. He was willing enough, but nothing came of it* I got sick of him.

  John. I saw it, in the stable.

  Julie. What did you see?

  John. I saw how he broke off the engagement.

  Julie. That’s a He. It was I who broke off the engagement. Did he say that he did it? The scoundrel!

  John. No, he wasn’t a scoundrel at all. You hate the men, Miss.

  Julie. Yes—usually, but at times, when my weak fit comes on—ugh!

  John. So you hate me as well?

  Julie. Infinitely. I could have you killed like a beast.

  John. The criminal is condemned to hard labor, but the beast is killed.

  Julie. Quite right.

  John. But there’s no beast here—and no prosecutor either. What are we going to do?

  Julie. Travel.

  John. To torture each other to death?

  Julie. No—have a good time for two, three years, or as long as we can—and then die.

  John. Die? What nonsense! I’m all for starting a hotel.

  Julie. [Without listening to him.] By the Lake of Como, where the sun is always shining, where the laurel-trees are green at Christmas and the oranges glow.

  John. The Lake of Como is a rainy hole. I didn’t see any oranges there, except in the vegetable shops, but it’s a good place for visitors, because there are a lot of villas which can be let to honeymooning couples, and that’s a very profitable industry. I’ll tell you why. They take a six months’ lease—and travel away after three weeks. ’ Julie. [Naively.] Why-after three weeks?

  John. They quarrel, of course; but the rent’s got to be paid all the same, and then we let again, and so it goes on one after the other, for love goes on to all eternity—even though it doesn’t keep quite so long.

  Julie. Then you won’t die with me?

  John. I won’t die at all just yet, thank you. In the first place, because I still enjoy life, and, besides, because I look upon suicide as a sin against providence, which-has given us life.

  Julie. Do you believe in God—you?

  John. Yes, I certainly do, and I go to church every other Sunday. But, speaking frankly, I’m tired of all this, and I’m going to bed now.

  Julie. You are, are you? And you think that I’m satisfied with that? Do you know what a man owes to the woman he has dishonored?

  John. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table.] If you don’t mind, I don’t like being in anybody’s debt.

  Julie. [As though she had not noticed the insult.] Do you know what the law provides?

  John. Unfortunately the law does not provide any penalty for the woman who seduces a man.

  Julie. [As before.] Can you find any other way out than that we should travel, marry and then get divorced again?

  John. And if I refuse to take on the mesalliance?

  Julie. Mesalliance?

  John. Yes, for me. I’ve got better ancestors than you have: I haven’t got any incendiaries in my pedigree.

  Julie. How do you know?

  John. At any rate, you can’t prove the contrary, for we have no other pedigree than what you can see in the registry. But I read in a book on the drawing-room table about your pedigree. Do you know what the founder of your line was? A miller with whose wife the king spent a night during the Danish war. I don’t run to ancestors like that. I’ve got no ancestors at all, as a matter of fact, but I can be an ancestor myself.

  Julie. This is what I get for opening my heart to a cad, for giving away my family honor.

  John. Family shame, you mean. But, look here, I told you so; people shouldn’t drink, because then people talk nonsense, and people shouldn’t talk nonsense.

  Julie. Oh, how I wish it undone, how I wish it undone! And if you only loved me!

  John. For the last time—what do you want? Do you want me to cry, do you want me to jump over your riding whip, do you want me to kiss you, or tempt you away for three weeks by the Lake of Como, and then, what am I to do?—what do you want? The thing’s beginning to be a nuisance, but that’s what one gets for meddling in the private affairs of the fair sex. Miss Julie, I see you’re unhappy, I know that you suffer, but I can’t understand you. People like us don’t go in for such fairy tales; we don’t hate each other either. We take love as a game, when our work gives us time off, but we haven’t got the whole day and the whole night to devote to it. Let me look at you. You are ill; you are certainly ill!

  Julie. You must be kind to me, and now talk like a man. Help me! Help me! Tell me what I must do—what course I shall take.

  John. My Christ! If I only knew myself!

  Julie. I am raving, I have been mad! But isn’t there any way by which I can be saved?

  John. Stay here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything.

  Julie. Impossible! The servants know it; and Christine knows it.

  John. They don’t know and they would never believe anything of the kind.

  Julie. [Slowly.] It might
happen again.

  John. That’s true.

  Julie. And the results?

  John. The results? Where was I wool-gathering not to have thought about it? Yes, there’s only one thing to do—to clear out at once. I won’t go with you, because then it’s all up, but you must travel alone—away—anywhere you like.

  Julie. Alone? Where? I can’t do it.

  John. You must. And before the Count comes back too. If you stay then you know what will be the result. If one has taken the first step, then one goes on with it, because one’s already in for the disgrace, and then one gets bolder and bolder—at last you get copped—so you must travel. Write later on to the Count and confess everything except that it was me, and he’ll never guess that. I don’t think either that he’d be very pleased if he did find out.

  Julie. I’ll travel, if you’ll come with me.

  John. Are you mad, Miss? Do you want to elope with your servant? It’ll all be in the papers the next morning, and the Count would never get over it.

  Julie. I can’t travel, I can’t stay. Help me! I am so tired, so infinitely tired—give me orders, put life into me again or I can’t think any more, and I can’t do any more.

  John. See here, now, what a wretched creature you are! Why do you strut about and turn up your nose as though you were the lord of creation? Well, then, I will give you orders, you go and change your clothes, get some money- to travel with and come down here again.

  Julie. [Sotto voce.] Come up with me.

  John. To your room? Now you’re mad again. [He hesitates for a moment.] No, you go at once. [He takes her by the hand and leads her to the glass door.]

  Julie. [As she goes.] Please speak kindly to me, John.

  John. An order always has an unkind sound. Just feel it now for yourself, just feel it. [Exeunt both.

  [JOHN comes back, gives a sigh of relief, sits down at the table by the right, and takes out his note-book, now and again he counts aloud; pantomime. CHRISTINE comes in with a white shirt-front and a white necktie in her hand.]

  Christine. Good Lord! What does the man look like! What’s happened here?