Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  One day it happened I read in the papers about a big check forgery by a well-known civil servant. I then knew that my nondescript friend had been the partner of the forger’s brother, and that his name was Stroman, and in that way I found out that the aforesaid Stroman had previously carried on business as a lending library, but that he was not a police court reporter on a big daily. But how could I establish any connection between the forgery, the police and his nondescript demeanor? I don’t know, but when I asked a friend if Stroman was punished he neither answered no nor yes; he simply didn’t know. [Pause.]

  Mr. Y. Well? Was he punished?

  Mr. X. No, he went scot-free. [Pause.]

  Mr. Y. Don’t you think that may have been why the police had such a morbid fascination for him and why he was so frightened of knocking up against his fellow-men?

  Mr. X. Yes.

  Mr. Y. Do you still keep up with him?

  Mr. X. No; and I don’t wish to. [Pause.] Would you have still kept up with him if he had been—convicted?

  Mr. Y. Yes—like a shot. [Mr. Y. gets up and walks up and down.]

  Mr. X. Sit still—why can’t you sit still?

  Mr. Y. Where did you get your broad views of human conduct? Are you a Christian?

  Mr. X. No—can’t you see that? [Mr. Y. Facial expression.] The Christian asks for forgiveness as I ask for punishment—to restore the balance, or whatever you call it. And you, my friend, who’ve done your little stretch, ought to know that quite well.

  Mr. Y. [Is nervous and stunned. Looking at Mr. X. first with wild hate and then with wonder and admiration.] How— can —you—know—that?

  Mr. X. I can see it.

  Mr. Y. How? How can you see it?

  Mr. X. I have taught myself. It’s just a science, like so many others. But now we won’t talk about it any more. [Looks at his watch, takes out a paper for signature, dips his pen in the ink and hands it to MR. Y.] I must think of my own business troubles. Would you mind witnessing my signature on this bill which I shall present to the Malmo bank to-morrow when I follow you?

  Mr. Y. I don’t intend to travel by Malmo.

  Mr. X. No?

  Mr. Y. No.

  Mr. X. But at all events you can witness my signature?

  Mr. Y. No, I never put my name to a piece of paper.

  Mr. X. Again—that’s the fifth time you’ve refused to sign your name. The first time was on a post-receipt—that was when I first began to observe you; now I notice that you are frightened of pen and ink. You haven’t sent off one letter since we’ve been here; only a single letter-card, and that you wrote in pencil. Do you understand now how I worked out your lapse? Again, that’s the seventh time you refused to accompany me to Malmo, though you haven’t been there at all this time. And all the time you’ve come here from America simply to see Malmo. And every morning you go half-a-mile southward to the windmills just so as to see the roofs of—

  Malmo. And you stand there, my friend, by the right window, and look out through the third pane of glass on the left counting from the bottom, so that you get a view of the spires of the castle and the chimney of the prison. So you see now it’s not a case of my being so smart, but of your being so dense.

  Mr. Y. Now you despise me?

  Mr. X. No.

  Mr. Y. Yes, you do; you must do so.

  Mr. X. No. See, here’s my hand on it. [Mr. Y. kisses the outstretched hand. Mr. X. takes back his hand.] What bestial fawning!

  Mr. Y. Forgive me! but you were the first man, sir, who held out his hand to me after he knew

  Mr. X. And now you start calling me “Sir.” It appalls me that, after you’ve served your sentence, you don’t feel you can hold your head up, and start with a clean sheet, on the level, just as good as anybody else. Will you tell me all about it? Will you?

  Mr. Y. [Wriggles.] Yes; but you won’t believe what I tell you. I’ll tell you about it, and you’ll see that I’m not just an ordinary criminal, and you’ll be convinced that my fall took place, as one says, against my will. [Wriggles.] Just as though it came of itself—spontaneously—without free will and as though one couldn’t help it. Let me open the door a little. I think the thunder has passed over.

  Mr. X. If you wouldn’t mind.

  Mr. Y. [Opens the door, then sits on the table and tells his story with frigid enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and affected intonation.] Yes, do you see, I was a student at Lind, and once I wanted a loan from the bank. I had no serious debts, and my governor had a little property, but not much, you know. In the meanwhile I had sent the bill to another man to back, and contrary to all my expectations I got it back with a refusal. For a whole hour I sat stupefied by the blow; you see, it was a most unpleasant surprise, most unpleasant. The document happened to be lying on the table. Close by was the letter. My eyes wandered first over the fatal lines that contained my doom—as a matter of fact it wasn’t my death sentence, because I could quite easily have got somebody else to back it, as a matter of fact as many people as I wanted, but, as I said, it was very unpleasant as things stood, and as I was sitting there in my innocence my gaze became gradually riveted on that signature on the letter, which, if only in its right place, would perhaps have saved my future. The signature was just a piece of ordinary handwriting—you know how, when you’re thinking about something else, you can sit down and fill a piece of blotting paper with absolute nonsense. I had a pen in my hand. [Takes up the pen.] See here, and, just like this, it began to move. I’m not going to contend that there was anything mystical—anything spiritualistic—at the back of it, because I don’t believe in all that stuff, it was simply a purely mechanical thoughtless process, as I sat and copied that pretty signature time after time—of course without any intention of making any advantage out of it. When the sheet had been covered I had acquired a complete proficiency in signing the name. [Throws the pen quickly away.] And then I forgot all about it. All night I slept deeply and heavily, and when I woke up I felt as though I had dreamed, but could not remember my dream; at times it seemed as though a door were ajar and I saw the writing table with a bill on it just like mine, and when I got up I went straight up to that table just as though I had after mature consideration made the irrevocable resolution to write the name on that blank piece of paper. All thought of consequences—of risks—had vanished; there was no hesitation— it was just as though I was fulfilling a solemn duty—and I wrote. [Springs.] What could it have been?

  Is it a case of inspiration or suggestion? But from whom? I had slept alone in the room. Could it have been the primitive part of my ego, the savage part, which was a stranger to all progress, which in the working of my sub-consciousness during sleep- had come along with its criminal will and its inability to calculate the consequences of an act? Tell me, what do you think of the matter?

  Mr. X. [Torturing him.] Quite frankly, your story does not satisfy me completely. I find gaps in it, but that may be because you haven’t remembered the details, and as to criminal suggestion, which I’ve read a fair amount about, I’ll try and remember—hm! But it all comes to the same thing—you’ve served your punishment—and you’ve had the pluck to own up to the error of your ways. Now don’t let’s talk any more about it.

  Mr. Y. No, no, no, we will go on talking about it until I convince myself that I’m not a criminal.

  Mr. X. Haven’t you done that?

  Mr. Y. No, I haven’t.

  Mr. X. Yes, you see, it’s that which bothers me. It’s that which bothers me. Don’t you think that every man has a skeleton in his cupboard? Haven’t we all stolen and lied as children? Yes, of course we have. Well, one finds men who remain children all their lives, so that they’re unable to control their criminal desires. If the opportunity but presents itself, one of the type will become a criminal immediately. But I can’t understand why you don’t feel yourself innocent. If you look upon children as irresponsible, you ought to look upon criminals in the same way. It’s strange—yes, it is strange, I shall perhaps be sorry afterwards,
that [Pause.] I once killed a man. I did, and I have never had any qualms.

  Mr. Y. [Keenly interested.] You—you?

  Mr. X. Yes, I myself. Perhaps you’d rather not shake hands with a murderer?

  Mr. Y. [Briskly.] Oh, what rot!

  Mr. X. Yes, but I went scot-free.

  Mr. Y. [With an air of familiarity and superiority.] All the better for you! How did you dodge the coppers?

  Mr. X. There was no one to accuse me—no one to suspect me—there were no witnesses. The thing was like this. A friend of mine had invited me one Christmas to his place outside Upsala for the hunting. He sent to drive me a drunken old blighter who went to sleep upon the box, drove bang into a hole and upset in the ditch. I won’t say it was a matter of life and death, but in a fit of temper I let him have it in the neck to wake him up, with the result that he never woke up, but lay there dead.

  Mr. Y. [Slyly.] Well, and didn’t you give yourself up?

  Mr. X. No, for the following reasons: The man had no relations or other people for whom his life was necessary; he had lived out his vegetable existence; his place could be taken immediately by someone else who needed it much more; while on the other hand I was indispensable to my parents’ well-being, to my own—perhaps to science. The result of the whole business had already cured me of my penchant to punch people in the neck, and I didn’t feel inclined to sacrifice my own life and that of my parents to satisfy a sense of abstract justice.

  Mr. Y. I see. So that’s how you judge human values?

  Mr. X. In the case in question, yes.

  Mr. Y. But how about the consciousness of guilt, retribution?

  Mr. X. I had no consciousness of guilt, I hadn’t committed any crime. I’d taken and given punches as a boy. But what was responsible was my ignorance that a fatal result could be so easily produced upon an old person.

  Mr. Y. Yes—but killing by chance-medley is punished by two years’ hard labor all the same—just the same as—forgery.

  Mr. X. I’ve thought about it enough, as you can think. And many a night I’ve dreamed I was in prison. I say, tell me, is it as bad as they make out to be under lock and key?

  Mr. Y. Yes, my dear fellow. They first disfigure your appearance by cutting your hair, so that if you didn’t look like a criminal before you do so afterward, and when you look at yourself in the glass you’re convinced that you’re a murderer.

  Mr. X. That’s a mask which can perhaps be taken off, but it’s not such a bad idea.

  Mr. Y. You joke about it, do you? And they reduced your food so that every day, nay, every hour, you feel yourself further away from life, and so much nearer to death. All the vital functions are depressed and you feel yourself dried up, and your soul, which ought to be cured and improved, is put upon starvation treatment, and thrust back a thousand years of civilization, you are only allowed to read books that have been written for the edification of our antediluvian ancestors, you can manage to hear what’s never going to take place in heaven; but what takes place on this earth remains a sealed book; you are taken away from your environment, degraded from your class, put beneath those who are beneath you; you get visions of what life was like in the Age of Bronze, feel as though you were dressed in skins in a barbarous state—lived in- a cave and drank out of a trough.

  Mr. X. Quite so; but it’s only reasonable that if a man’s behaving as though this were the Age of Bronze he should live in the appropriate costume of the period.

  Mr. Y. [Frowns.] You’re making fun of me, you are. You carry on like a man in the Age of Stone, who is yet somehow allowed to live in an Age of Gold.

  Mr. X. [Interrogating sharply.] What! What do you mean by that expression of yours—the Age of Gold?

  Mr. Y. [Slyly.] Nothing at all.

  Mr. X. You’re lying, you are, because you haven’t the pluck to say what you really meant.

  Mr. Y. I haven’t the pluck! You think that! I showed some pluck, I think, when I dared show myself in this neighborhood after I’d gone through what I’d gone through. But do you know the worst part of the suffering when a man’s inside? Do you? It’s just this, that the other men aren’t there too.

  Mr. X. What other men?

  Mr. Y. The men who went scot-free.

  Mr. X. Are you referring to me?

  Mr. Y. Yes.

  Mr. X. I’ve not committed any crime.

  Mr. Y. Really, haven’t you?

  Mr. X. No; an accident isn’t a crime.

  Mr. Y. I see: it’s an accident if you commit murder.

  Mr. X. I haven’t committed murder.

  Mr. Y. Really—really! It’s not murder, then, to strike another man dead?

  Mr. X. No—not always. There’s manslaughter—there’s chance-medley—there’s accidental homicide—and there’s the distinction between malice aforethought or not. At all events, I’m quite afraid of you now—since you belong to the most dangerous category of humanity—the fools.

  Mr. Y. Indeed! You imagine that I am a fool? Just listen. Would.you like a proof that I’m very smart?

  Mr. X. Let’s hear it.

  Mr. Y. Will you acknowledge that I reason with both shrewdness and logic when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say? You have had an accident which might have got you two years’ hard labor; you’ve escaped scot-free from the stigma of hard labor, and here sits a man who has been the victim of a misfortune—a piece of unconscious suggestion—and suffered two years’ hard labor. This man can by great scientific services wipe out the stigma which he involuntarily brought upon himself, but to perform those services he must have money—a lot of money—and money at once.

  Don’t you think that the other man—the man who went unpunished—should readjust the balance of human life in the same way as if he were adjudged liable to pay compensation? Don’t you think so?

  Mr. X. [Quietly.] Yes.

  Mr. Y. Now we understand one another. [Pause.] How much do you think fair?

  Mr. X. Fair. The law provides that fifty kronors should be the minimum compensation, but as the dead man didn’t leave any dependents your argument falls to the ground.

  Mr. Y. No; you won’t understand. Let me make it clearer. It’s to me that you must make the compensation.

  Mr. X. I’ve never heard before that a homicide should make compensation to a forger, and, besides, I haven’t found anybody to accuse me.

  Mr. Y. No? Well, here is someone.

  Mr. X. Now we’re beginning to see how the land lies. How much do you want to abet my homicide?

  Mr. Y. Six thousand kronors.

  Mr. X. That’s too much. Where am I to get it from? [MR. Y. points to the chest.] I won’t. I won’t be a thief.

  Mr. Y. Don’t try to bluff me. Are you going to tell me that you haven’t been to that chest already?

  Mr. X. [As if to himself.] To think that I could have made such a complete mistake! But that’s the case with soft natures. You like soft natures, so you’re apt to believe that they like you, and that’s why I’ve always been on my guard against anyone I liked. And so you’re absolutely convinced that I took the chest out of the ground?

  Mr. Y. Yes, I’m certain.

  Mr. X. And you’ll inform against me if you don’t get six thousand kronors.

  Mr. Y. No mistake about it—you can’t get out of it, and it’s not worth while trying.

  Mr. X. Do you think that I will give my father a thief for a son, my wife a thief for a husband, my children a thief for a father, my friends a thief for a colleague? Not if I know it. Now I will go to the police and give myself up.

  Mr. Y. [Springs up and collects his things.] Wait a bit.

  Mr. X. What for?

  Mr. Y. [Hesitating.] I was only thinking—that it’s not necessary any more—as it’s not necessary for me to stay here—that I might go.

  Mr. X. No, you don’t—sit down in your place at the table where you were before—then we’ll talk a bit first.

  Mr. Y. [Sits down after he has taken up a black coat.] What, what’s going to ha
ppen now?

  Mr. X. [Looks in the mirror at the back of MR. Y.] Now it’s as clear as possible.

  Mr. Y. [Nervously.] What do you see so strange?

  Mr. X. I see in the looking-glass that you are a thief—a simple, common or garden thief. A few minutes ago, when you sat there in your white shirt, I just noticed the books were out of order a bit in my bookcase, but I couldn’t notice in what way, as I had to listen to you and observe you. But now that you’ve become antipathetic to me my eyes have grown sharper, and now that you’ve on your black coat, which affords a color foil in the red backs of the books, which there wasn’t before when your red braces were showing, I see that you’ve been and read your forgery story out of Bernheim’s treatise on suggestion, and have put the book back upside down. So you stole the story as well. Now that’s why I think that I’m right in drawing the deduction that you committed your crime because you needed either the necessities or luxuries of life.

  Mr. Y. Out of necessity! If you only knew!

  Mr. X. If you only knew in what necessity I have lived, and live still. But that’s got nothing to do with it. But you’ve done your stretch, that’s nearly certain, but it was in America, because it was American prison life that you described; and another thing is almost equally certain: that you haven’t done your term here.

  Mr. Y. How can you say that?

  Mr. X. Wait till the inspector comes, then get to know. [MR. Y. gets up.] Look here, now! The first time I mentioned the inspector, in connection with a thunderbolt, you wanted to clear out. Besides, when a man has served in prison he will never go to a windmill every day and look at it, or post himself behind a window-pane—in one word, you are both a punished and an unpunished criminal. And that’s why you were so unusually difficult to get at. [Pause.]

  Mr. Y. [Absolutely cowed.] May I go now?