Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  John. Oh, Miss Julie called in the servants. Were you so sound asleep that you didn’t hear it?

  Christine. I slept like a log.

  John. And dressed all ready for church?

  Christine. Yes. You know you promised, dear, to come to Communion with me to-day.

  John. Yes, that’s true, and you’ve already got some of my togs for me. Well, come here. [He sits down on the right. CHRISTINE gives him the white front and necktie and helps him to put them on. Pause.] [Sleepily.] What gospel is it to-day?

  Christine. I’ve got an idea it’s about the beheading of John the Baptist.

  John. That’s certain to last an awful time! Ugh! You’re hurting me. Oh, I’m so sleepy, so sleepy!

  Christine. Yes, what have you been doing all night? You look absolutely washed out.

  John. I’ve been sitting here chatting with Miss Julie.

  Christine. She doesn’t know what’s decent. My God! she doesn’t. [Pause.]

  John. I say, Christine dear.

  Christine. Well?

  John. It’s awfully strange when one comes to think it over.

  Christine. What’s so strange about her?

  John. Everything. [Pause.]

  Christine. [Looks at the glass which stands half empty on the table.] Did you drink together as well?

  John. Yes.

  Christine. Ugh! Look me in the face.

  John. Yes.

  Christine. Is it possible? Is it possible?

  John. [After reflecting for a short time.] Yes, it is.

  Christine. Crikey! I’d never have thought it, that I wouldn’t. No. Ugh! Ugh!

  John. I take it you’re not jealous of her?

  Christine. No, not of her; if it had been Clara or Sophie, yes, I should have been. Poor girl! Now, I tell you what. I won’t stay any longer in this house, where one can’t keep any respect for the gentry.

  John. Why should one respect them?

  Christine. Yes, and you, who are as sly as they’re made, ask me that. But will you serve people who carry on so improper? Why, one lowers oneself by doing it, it seems to me.

  John. Yes, but it’s certainly a consolation for us that the others are no better than we are.

  Christine. No, I don’t find that; because if they’re not better it’s not worth while trying to be like our betters, and think of the Count, think of him; he’s had so much trouble all his life long. No, I won’t stay any longer in this house. And with the likes of you! If it had been even Kronvogt, if it had been a better man.

  John. What do you mean?

  Christine. Yes, yes, you’re quite a good fellow, I know, but there’s always a difference between people and people—and I can never forget it. A young lady who was so proud, so haughty to the men that one could never imagine that she would ever give herself to a man—and then the likes of you! Her, who wanted to have the poor Diana shot dead at once, because she ran after a dog in the courtyard. Yes, I must say that; but I won’t stay here any longer, and on the 24th of October I go my way.

  John. And then?

  Christine. Well, as we’re on the subject, it would be about time for you to look out for another job, as we want to get married.

  John. Yes, what kind of a job am I to look out for? I can’t get as good a place as this, if I’m married.

  Christine. Of course you can’t, but you must try to get a place as porter, or see if you can get a situation as a servant in some public institution. The victuals are few but certain, and then the wife and children get a pension.

  John. [With a grimace.] That’s all very fine, but it’s not quite my line of country to start off about thinking of dying for wife and child. I must confess that I’ve higher views.

  Christine. Your views, to be sure! But you’ve also got obligations. Just think of her.

  John. You mustn’t nag me by talking about my obligations. I know quite well what I’ve got to do. [He listens for a sound outside.] But we’ve got time enough to think about all this. Go in, and get ready, and then we’ll go to church.

  Christine. Who’s walking about upstairs?

  John. I don’t know—perhaps Clara.

  Christine. [Goes.] I suppose it can’t be the Count who’s come back without anyone having heard him?

  John. [Nervously.] No, I don’t think so, because then he’d have rung already.

  Christine. Yes. God knows. I’ve gone through the likes of this before. [Exit to the right. The sun has risen in the meanwhile and gradually illuminates the tops of the trees outside, the light grows gradually deeper till it falls slanting on the window. JOHN goes to the glass door and makes a sign.]

  Julie. [Comes in in traveling dress, with a small bird cage covered with a handkerchief, and places it on a chair.] I’m ready now.

  John. Hush! Christine is awake.

  Julie. [Extremely excited in the following scene.] Did she have any idea?

  John. She knows nothing. But, my God! What a sight you look.

  Julie. What! How’d I look?

  John. You’re as white as a corpse and, pardon my saying it, your face is dirty.

  Julie. Then give me some water to wash—all right. [She goes to the washing-stand and washes her face and hands.] Give me a towel. Ah! the sun has risen.

  John. And then the hobgoblin flies away.

  Julie. Yes, a goblin has really been at work last night. Listen to me. Come with me. I’ve got the needful, John.

  John. [Hesitating.] Enough?

  Julie. Enough to start on. Come with me, I can’t travel alone to-day. Just think of it. Midsummer Day in a stuffy train, stuck in among a lot of people who stare at one; waiting about at stations when one wants to fly. No, I can’t do it! I can’t do it! And then all my memories, my memories of Midsummer’s Day when I was a child, with the church decorated with flowers—birch and lilac, the midday meal at a splendidly covered table, relatives and friends, the afternoon in the park, dancing and music, flowers and games. Ah! you can run away and run away, but your memories, your repentance and your pangs of conscience follow on in the luggage van.

  John. I’ll come with you, but right away, before it’s too late. Now. Immediately.

  Julie. Then get ready. [She takes up the bird cage.]

  John. But no luggage. In that case we’re lost.

  Julie. No, no luggage, only what we can take with us in the compartment.

  John. [Has taken a hat.] What have you got there then? What is it?

  Julie. It’s only my little canary. I don’t want to leave it behind.

  John. Come, I say! Have we got to cart along a bird cage with us? How absolutely mad! Leave the bird there!

  Julie. The only thing I’m taking with me from home! The one living creature that likes me, after Diana was faithless to me! Don’t be cruel. Let me take it with me!

  John. Leave it there, I tell you—and don’t talk so loud. Christine might hear us.

  Julie. No, I won’t leave it behind among strangers. I’d rather you killed it.

  John. Then give me the little thing; I’ll twist its neck for it.

  Julie. Yes, but don’t hurt it, don’t! No, I can’t!

  John. Hand it over—I’ll do the trick.

  Julie. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it.] Oh, my dicky bird! Must you die by the hand of your own mistress?

  John. Be good enough not to make any scene; your life and well-being are at stake. That’s right, quick! [He snatches the bird out of her hand, carries it to the chopping block, and takes the kitchen knife.] [ JULIE turns round^] You should have learned to kill fowls instead of shooting with your revolver. [Chops.] And then you wouldn’t have fainted at the sight of a drop of blood.

  Julie. [Shrieking.] Kill me too, kill me! If you can kill an innocent animal without your hand shaking! Oh, I hate and loathe you! There is blood between us! I curse the hour in which I saw you! I curse the hour in which I was born!

  John. Now, what’s the good of your cursing? Let’s go!

  Julie. [Approache
s the chopping block as though attracted to it against her will.] No, I won’t go yet, I can’t—I must see. Hush! there’s a wagon outside. [She listens, while her eyes are riveted in a stare on the chopping block and the knife.] Do you think I can’t look at any blood? Do you think I’m so weak? Oh! I’d just like to see your blood and your brains on the chopping block. I’d like to see your whole stock swimming in a lake, like the one there. I believe I could drink out of your skull! I could wash my feet in your chest! I could eat your heart roasted! You think I am weak! You think I love you! You think I mean to carry your spawn under my heart and feed it with my own blood, bear your child and give it your name! I say, you, what is your name? I’ve never heard your surname—you haven’t got any, I should think. I shall be Mrs. Head Waiter, or Madame Chimney Sweeper. You hound! You, who wear my livery, you menial, who wear my arms on your buttons—I’ve got to go shares with my cook, have I?—to compete with my own servant? Oh! oh! oh! You think I’m a coward and want to run away? No, now I’m going to stay, and then the storm can burst. My father comes home—he finds his secretary broken open and his money stolen—then he rings the bell twice—for his servant—and then he sends for the police—and then I shall tell him everything. Everything! Oh, it’s fine to make an end of the thing—if it would only have an end. And then he gets a stroke, and dies—and that’s the end of the whole story. And then comes peace and quiet—eternal peace. And then the escutcheon is broken over the coffin: the noble race is extinct—and the servant’s brat grows up in a foundling hospital—and wins his spurs in the gutter, and finishes up in a prison. [CHRISTINE, dressed for church, enters on the right, hymn book in hand. JULIE rushes to her and falls into her arms, as though seeking protection.] Help me, Christine; help me against this man!

  Christine. [Immobile and cold.] What a pretty sight for a holiday morning! [She looks at the chopping block.] And what a dirty mess you’ve been making here! What can it all mean? How you’re shrieking and

  Julie. Christine, you’re a woman, and my friend. Beware of this scoundrel.

  John. [Slightly shy and embarrassed.] If you ladies want to have an argument, I’ll go in and have a shave. [He sneaks away to the right.]

  Julie. You will understand me, and you must do what I tell you.

  Christine. No, I certainly don’t understand such carryings-on. Where are you going to in your traveling dress? And he’s got his hat on. What’s it all mean?

  Julie. Listen to me, Christine; listen to me, then I’ll tell you everything.

  Christine. I don’t want to know anything.

  Julie. You must listen to me.

  Christine. What is it, then? Your tomfoolery with John? Look here; I don’t care anything about that, because it had nothing to do with me, but if you think you’re going to tempt him to elope with you, then we’ll put a very fine spoke in your little wheel.

  Julie. [Extremely excited.] Try to be calm, Christine, and listen to me! I can’t stay here, and John can’t stay here, so we must travel.

  Christine. Hm, hm!

  Julie. [With sudden inspiration.] But, look here. I’ve got an idea now. How about if we all three went—abroad—to Switzerland and started a hotel together? I’ve got money. [She shows it.] You see; and John and I will look after the whole thing, and you, I thought, could take over the kitchen. Isn’t it nice? Just say yes, and come with us, and all is fixed up. Just say yes. [She embraces CHRISTINE and hugs her tenderly.]

  Christine. [Cold and contemplative.] Hm, hm!

  Julie. [Quicker.] You’ve never been out and traveled, Christine—you must come out in the world and look round; you can have no idea how jolly it is to travel on a railway—to be always seeing new people—new countries. And then we get to Hamburg and take a trip through the Zoological Gardens. What do you think of it? And then we’ll go to the theater and hear the opera—and when we get to Munich we’ve got the museums, and there are Rubenses and Raphaels—pictures by the two great painters, you see. You’ve heard people talk of Munich, where King Ludwig used to live—the king, you know, who went mad—and then we’ll go over his castles—he has castles which are got up just like fairy tales—and it’s not far from there to Switzerland—with the Alps. Ugh! just think of the Alps covered with snow in the middle of summer; and tangerines and laurel trees grow there which are in bloom the whole year round. [JOHN appears on the right, stretching his razor on a strop, which he holds with his teeth and his left hand. He listens with pleasure to her speech, and now and again nods assent.] [Extremely quickly.] And then we take a hotel—and I sit in the bureau while John stands up and receives the visitors—goes out and does business—writes letters. That’s a life, you take it from me; then the train puffs, the omnibus comes, the bells ring in the hotel itself, the bell rings in the restaurant—and then I make out the bills—and I’ll touch them up—you can have no idea how shy travelers are when they’ve got to pay their bill. And you—you’re installed as mistress in the kitchen. Of course, you haven’t yourself got to stand by the fireplace, and you’ve got to have nice pretty dresses when you have to appear before the visitors—and a girl with an appearance like you—no, I’m not flattering you—you can get a husband perhaps some fine day, some rich Englishman; you see, people are so easy to catch. [She commences to speak more slowly.] And then we shall get rich—and we’ll build a villa by Lake Como—of course it rains there now and then, but [in a less tense tone] there’s certain to be a great deal of sun—even though there’s gloomy weather as well—and—then—then we can travel home again—and come back [pause] here—or anywhere else.

  Christine. Look here, Miss; do you believe in all this yourself?

  Julie. [Crushed.] Do I believe in it myself?

  Christine. Yes.

  Julie. [Tired.] I don’t know. I don’t really believe in anything any more. [She sits down on the seat and lays her head on the table between her arms.] In anything, in anything at all.

  Christine. [Turns to the left, where JOHN is standing.] So you thought you’d elope, did you?

  John. [Shamefaced, puts his rasor on the table.] Elope? Come, that’s a big word—you heard Miss Julie’s plan; and although she’s tired now, from having been up all night, the scheme can still be put through.

  Christine. I say, did you mean that I should be cook there, for her?

  John. [Sharply.] Be so kind as to speak more refined when you’re talking of your mistress. Understand?

  Christine. Mistress?

  John. Yes.

  Christine. No. I say, I say there—

  John. Yes, listen to me. It is much better for you if you do, and don’t gabble so much. Miss Julie is your mistress, and you ought to despise yourself for the same reason that you despise her.

  Christine. I have always had so much self-respect

  John. That you can despise others.

  Christine. That I have never lowered myself below my place. Just say, if you can, that the Count’s cook had anything to do with the cattleman or the swineherd. You just try it on!

  John. Quite so. You had a little something on with a nice fellow, and very lucky for you, too.

  Christine. A nice fellow, to be sure, who sells the Count’s oats out of the stable.

  John. You’re a nice one to talk; you get commissions from the vegetable man and ain’t above being squared by the butcher.

  Christine. What?

  John. And so it’s you that can’t respect your mistress any more! You—you—I don’t think!

  Christine. Come along to church now. A good sermon’ll do you a lot of good after the way you’ve been carrying on.

  John. No fear, I’m not going to church to-day. You go alone, and confess your own sins.

  Christine. Yes, that I will, and I’ll come home with forgiveness, and for you too, the Redeemer suffered and died on the cross for all our sins, and if we go to Him with faith and a contrite spirit then He will take all our guilt on Himself.

  Julie. Do you believe that, Christine?

  Chri
stine. That’s my living 1 faith, as true as I stand here, and that’s my faith from a child, that I’ve kept ever since I was young, and where sin overflows there grace overflows as well.

  Julie. Ah, if I had your faith! Ah, if

  Christine. Mark you, one can’t just go and get it.

  Julie. Who gets it, then?

  Christine. That’s the great secret of grace, Miss, mark you, and God is no respecter of persons, but the first shall be last.

  Julie. Yes, but then He is a respecter of persons—the last.

  Christine. [Continues.] And it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven. Mark you that’s what it is, Miss Julie. Well, I’m off—alone, and on the way I’ll tell the stable boy not to let out any horses, in case anybody wants to travel, before the Count comes home. Adieu! [Exit through the glass door.]

  John. What a devil! And all that fuss about a canary.

  Julie. [Limply.] Leave the canary out of it. Can you see a way out of all this?—an end for the whole thing?

  John. [Ponders.] No.

  Julie. What would you do in my position?

  John. In your position? Just wait a minute, will you? As a girl of good birth, as a woman—as a fallen woman? I don’t know. Ah! I’ve got it!

  Julie. [Takes up the razor and makes a movement.] That?

  John. Yes, but I wouldn’t do it—note that well; that’s the difference between us.

  Julie. Because you’re a man and I’m a woman? What difference does that make?

  John. The same difference—as between men and women.

  Julie. [With the knife in her hand.] I want to, but I can’t do it. My father couldn’t do it either—the time when he ought to have.

  John. No; he shouldn’t have done it—his first duty was to revenge himself.

  Julie. And now my mother avenges herself again through me.

  John. Have you never loved your father, Miss Julie?

  Julie. Yes, infinitely—but I’m sure that I’ve hated him as well. I must have done it without having noticed it myself, but he brought me up to despise my own sex, to be half a woman and half a man. Who is to blame for what has happened? My father, my mother, I myself? I myself? I haven’t got a self at all, I haven’t got a thought which I don’t get from my father, I haven’t got a passion which I don’t get from my mother, and the latest phase—the equality of men and women—that I got from my fiance, whom I called a scoundrel for his pains. How then can it be my own fault? To shove the blame on Jesus like Christine does—no, I’ve got too much pride and too much common sense for that—thanks to my father’s teaching. And as for a rich man not being able to get into the kingdom of heaven, that’s a lie. Christine has got money in the savings bank. Certainly she won’t get in. Who is responsible for the wrong? What does it matter to us who is? I know I’ve got to put up with the blame and the consequences.