Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  Mr. X. Now you may go.

  Mr. Y. [Puts his things together.] Are you angry with me?

  Mr. X. Yes. Would you prefer it if I pitied you?

  Mr. Y. [Sulkily.] Do you consider yourself better than I am?

  Mr. X. I certainly do. I am better than you are. I am much smarter than you, and much more useful than you are to the general community.

  Mr. Y. You are very deep, but not so deep as I am, I am in check myself, but all the same you’ll be mate next move.

  Mr. X. [Fixes MR. Y.] Shall we have another round? What mischief are you up to now?

  Mr. Y. That’s my secret.

  Mr. X. Let’s have a look at you—you’re thinking of writing an anonymous letter to my wife and telling her about this secret of mine.

  Mr. Y. Yes, and you can’t stop me doing it. Put me in jail? Why, you daren’t; and so you’ve got to let me go; and when I’m gone I can do what I want to every day.

  Mr. X. Oh, you devil! You’ve found my one weak point—do you want to compel me to become a murderer?

  Mr. Y. You can’t do that, you wretch!

  Mr. X. You see, there’s a difference between one man and another. And you know yourself that I can’t do things like you do; that’s where you have the pull over me. But just consider—supposing you make me treat you in the same way that I treated the coachman. [Lifts up his hand to deliver a blow.]

  Mr. Y. [Stares insolently at MR. X.] You can’t do it— you can’t do it; just as you couldn’t find your salvation in that chest.

  Mr. X. You don’t believe then that I took it out of the earth?

  Mr. Y. You didn’t have the pluck. Just as you didn’t have the pluck to tell your wife that she’d married a murderer.

  Mr. X. You’re a different type of man to what I am—whether you’re stronger or weaker I don’t know—more criminal or not don’t touch me. But there’s no question about your being more of an ass; because you were an ass when you wrote in somebody else’s name instead of begging, as I managed to do; you were an ass when you went and stole an idea out of my book. Couldn’t you have known that I read my books? You were an ass when you thought that you were smarter than I was and that you could lure me into being a thief; you were a fool when you thought it would adjust the balance if there were two thieves in the world instead of one, and you were most foolish of all when you labored under the delusion that I would go and build up my life’s happiness without having first made the corner-stone safe. You go and write anonymous letters to my wife that her husband is a homicide?—she knew it when we were engaged! Now take yourself off!

  Mr. Y. May I go?

  Mr. X. You shall go now. At once. Your things will follow you. Clear out!

  [Curtain.]

  SIMOON

  CHARACTERS

  BISKRA, an Arabian girl.

  YOUSEF, her lover.

  GUIMARD, a lieutenant in the Zouaves.

  SCENE I

  In Algeria, at the present time.

  An Arabian marabout (cemetery) with a sarcophagus on the ground. Praying mats here and there; on the right a charnel-house. Door at the back with porch and curtains; window apertures in the wall at the back. Small sand hillocks here and there on the grcrund; an uprooted aloe; a palm-tree; a heap of esparto grass.

  [BISKRA enters with a burnous hood drawn down over her face, and a guitar on her back, throws herself down on a mat end then prays with arms crossed over her breast. The wind blows outside.]

  Biskra. La ilaha all allah.

  Yousef. [In hatft.] The Simoon comes. Where is the Frank?

  Biskra. He will be here in a little space.

  Yousef. Why dost thou not slay him at once?

  Biskra. Nay, because he is going to do that himself. If I were to do it the whites would kill the whole of our tribe, for they know that I was the guide Ali—though they do not know that I am the maid Biskra.

  Yousef. He is to do it himself? How is that to be?

  Biskra. Dost not know the Simoon? Thou knowest that Simoon shrivels up the brains of the whites like dates, and makes them stricken with panic, so that life is hateful to them and they fly out into the great unknown.

  Yousef. I have heard such things, and in the last combat six Franks lifted their hands against themselves. For snow has fallen on the mountains and in half-an-hour all may be over. Biskra, canst thou hate?

  Biskra. Thou askest if I can hate? My hate is boundless as the waste, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love. Rvery hour of joy they have stolen from me since they killed Ali has gathered together like poison in a viper’s fangs, and what Simoon does not wreak that will I wreak myself.

  Yousef. That is well spoken, Biskra, and thou shalt do as thou hast said. My hate has withered like grass in the autumn since my eyes have had sight of thee. Take strength from me and be the arrow from my bow.

  Biskra. Embrace me, Yousef; embrace me.

  Yousef. Not here in the holy presence; not now—later, afterward—when thou shalt have earned thy reward.

  Biskra. Noble sheikh! Noble man!

  Yousef. Yes, the maid that shall bear my child under her heart must show herself worthy of the honor.

  Biskra. I—none other—shall bear the child of Yousef. I, Biskra, the despised one, the ill-favored one, but the strong one.

  Yousef. So be it. Now I will go down and sleep by the fountain. Need I to teach thee the secret craft which thou didst learn from the great Marabout Siddi sheikh, and which thou didst practice in the market-place since thou wast a child?

  Biskra. That need’st thou not dot I know all the secret craft that one needs to frighten the life out of a craven Frank; the cowards who crawl before their enemies and send leaden pellets before them. I know all— even to speaking with the belly. And what my craft fails to wreak, that shall the sun do, for the sun is on the side of Yousef and of Biskra.

  Yousef. The sun is the Moslem’s friend, but today is it passing great. Thou mayst get scorched, maid. Take first a drink of water, for I can see thy hands are parched. [He lifts up a mat and stoops down to a bowl of water, which he hands to BISKRA.]

  Biskra. [Lifts the bowl to her mouth.] And my eyes begin to see red—my lungs to dry up. I hear—I hear—see thou, the sands run already through the roof, and there sings the string of the guitar. Simoon is here! But the Frank is not.

  Yousef. Come down here, Biskra, and let the Frank kill himself.

  Biskra. Hell first and death afterward. Don’t thou think that I flinch? [Pours out the water on a heap of sand.] I shall water the sand, that my revenge may grow! And I shall parch my heart. Grow, hate! Burn, sun! Blow, wind!

  Yousef. Hail to thee, mother of the son of Yousef, for thou shalt bear Yousef’s son, the Avenger, even thou. [The wind increases, the curtain in front of the door flaps, a red light illumines the room, sand subsequently passes into gold.]

  Biskra. The Frank comes—and Simoon is here! Go!

  Yousef. See me again in a half-hour. Here is your sand water. [Points to a sandheap.] Heaven itself will measure out the time of the infidel’s hell.

  SCENE II

  BISKRA; GUIMARD, pale and staggering, confused, speaks in a faint voice.

  Guimard. Simoon is here. What way do you think my men have gone?

  Biskra. I guided your men to the left, toward the east. Guimard. To the left toward—the east. Let me see. Now I’ve got the east right, and the west. Put me in a chair and give me some water.

  Biskra. [Leads GUIMARD to the sand hillock, and puts him on the ground, with his head on the sand hillack.] Art thou easy thus?

  Guimard. [Looks at her.] I’m sitting a little crooked. Put something under my head.

  Biskra. [Piles up the sand hillock under his head.] And now hast thou a cushion under thy head.

  Guimard. Head? That’s my feet. Isn’t that my feet?

  Biskra. Yea, surely.

  Guimard. I thought so. Give me a stool, now, under my head.

  Biskra. [Drags along an aloe-tree and puts it under GUI
MARD’S knees.] There is a stool for thee.

  Guimard. And water—water!

  Biskra. [Takes the empty bowl, fills it with sand and hands it to GUIMARD.] Drink it while it is cold.

  Guimard. [Sips from the bowl.] It is cold, but none the less it does not slake my thirst. I cannot drink. I abhor water, take it away.

  Biskra. That’s the dog that bit thee.

  Guimard. What dog? I have never been bitten by any dog.

  Biskra. Simoon has shrivelled up thy memory. Beware of the phantoms of Simoon. Thou rememberest the mad wind-hound that bit thee on thy last hunt but one in Bab-el-Oued.

  Guimard. I was hunting in Bab-el-Oued! That is right. Was it a bran-colored one?

  Biskra. A bitch! Yes, see now! And she bit thee in the calf. Dost thou not feel the wound smarting?

  Guimard. [Feels himself on his calf and pricks himself with the aloe.] Yes, I feel it. Water! Water!

  Biskra. [Hands him the bowl of sand.] Drink, drink!

  Guimard. No, I cannot! Blessed Virgin, Mother of God! I am panic-stricken!

  Biskra. Be not afraid! I will cure thee and drive out the devils with the power of my music. Listen.

  Guimard. [Shrieks.] Ah! Ah! No music! I cannot bear it. And what good does it do me?

  Biskra. Music tames the treacherous spirit of the serpent. Dost thou think it is not equal to a mad dog’s bite? [Singing with guitar.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon! Simoon!

  Yousef. [Underground.] Simoon! Simoon!

  Guimard. What is that you were singing? Ah!

  Biskra. Have I been singing? Look here, thou, now I put a palm leaf in my mouth. [Takes a palm leaf between her teeth. Song above.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra.

  Yousef. [Beneath the ground.] Simoon, Simoon.

  Guimard. What hellish nightmare is this?

  Biskra. I am singing now. [BISKRA and YOUSEF together.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon.

  Guimard. [Raises himself.] What devil are you that sings with two voices? Are you a man or a woman? Or both in one?

  Biskra. I am Ali the guide. Thou dost not know me again, foe thy senses are wandering; but if thou wouldst save thyself from mad thoughts, and mad feelings, believe what I say and do what I bid.

  Guimard. You need not bid me, for I find that all is as you say it is.

  Biskra. Thou seest that it is so, thou idolater?

  Guimard. Idolater?

  Biskra. Yes. Take up the idol thou wearest on thy breast. [GUIMARD takes up a medallion.] Trample it under thy feet and call on God, the One, the Merciful, the Pitiful.

  Guimard. [Hesitating.] St. Edward, my patron saint.

  Biskra. Can he protect thee? Can he?

  Guimard. No, he cannot! [Sitting up.] Yes, he can.

  Biskra. Let us see then. [Opens the doors, the curtains flap and the grass whistles.]

  Guimard. [Puts his hand before his mouth.] Close the door!

  Biskra. Down with the idol!

  Guimard. No, I cannot.

  Biskra. See then. Simoon ruffles not a hair of my head, but thee, thou infidel, he kills. Down with the idol.

  Guimard. [Throws the medallion on the floor.] Water, I am dying.

  Biskra. Pray to the One, the Merciful, the Pitiful.

  Guimard. What shall I ask?

  Biskra. Say my words.

  Guimard. Speak.

  Biskra. “God is One, there is no other God but He the Merciful, the Pitiful.”

  Guimard.“God is One, there is no other God but He the Merciful, the Pitiful.”

  Biskra. Lie down on the floor. [GUIMARD lies down involuntarily.] What dost thou hear?

  Guimard. I hear a fountain plash.

  Biskra. See thou, God is One, and there is no one else but He the Merciful, the Pitiful! What dost thou see?

  Guimard. I hear a fountain plash. I see a lamp shine, by a window with green blinds, in a white street.

  Biskra. Who sits at the window?

  Guimard. My wife, Elise!

  Biskra. Who stands behind the curtains and puts his hands around her neck?

  Guimard. That’s my son, Georges.

  Biskra. How old is thy son?

  Guimard. Four years come St. Nicholas.

  Biskra. And can he already stand behind curtains arid hold the neck of another man’s wife?

  Guimard. He cannot—but it is he.

  Biskra. Four years old with a fair mustache.

  Guimard. A fair mustache, you say. Ah! that is Jules, my friend.

  Biskra. Who stands behind the curtains and lays his hand around thy wife’s neck?

  Guimard. Ah! Devil!

  Biskra. Dost thou see thy son?

  Guimard. No, not any more.

  Biskra. [Imitates the ringing of bells with her guitar.] What seest thou, now?

  Guimard. I hear bells being rung, and I smell the odor of a dead body, it smells like rancid butter—ugh!

  Biskra. Dost thou not hear the choir boys sing for the memory of a dead child?

  Guimard. Just wait, I cannot hear it. [Gloomily.] But dost thou wish it, be it so; now I hear it.

  Biskra. Dost thou see the wreaths on the coffin, which they carry in their midst?

  Guimard. Yes.

  Biskra. There is a violet ribbon, and this is printed in silver: “Farewell, my beloved Georges, thy father.”

  Guimard. Yes, that is it then. [Cries.] My Georges! Georges! My dear child! Elise, my wife, comfort me. Help me! [Gropes arcruvtd him.] Where are you, dear? Elise? Have you gone away from me? Answer! Call out the name of thy loved one. [A VOICE from the roof: Jules! Jules!] Jules? My name is What is my name! My name is Charles! And she called Jules! Elise, dear wife, answer me, since your spirit is here. I know it, and you promised me never to love anyone else. [VOICES laugh.] Who is laughing?

  Biskra. Elise, your wife.

  Guimard. Kill me. I will not live any more. Life is as loathsome to me as sauerkraut in St. Doux. Do you know what St. Doux is, you? Lard! [Spits in front of himself.] I have no more saliva left. Water! Water!—otherwise I’ll bite you. [Full storm outside.]

  Biskra. [Puts her finger to her lips and coughs.] Now, die, Frank! Write thy last will while there is time. Where is thy note-book?

  Guimard. [Takes up a note-book and a pen.] What shall I write?

  Biskra. A man thinks of his wife when he has got to die—and of his child.

  Guimard. [Writes.] “Elise—I curse thee! Simoon—I die.”

  Biskra. And sign it thus, otherwise the will is worth nothing.

  Guimard. How shall I sign it?

  Biskra. Write: la ilaha all allah.

  Guimard. [Writes.] That is written! May I die now?

  Biskra. Now you may die like a cowardly soldier who has deserted his comrades, and thou art like to have a pretty funeral, with jackals to sing on thy corpse. [Doing, an, “attack” on her guitar.] Dost thou hear the drums going—to the attack—the infidels who have sun and Simoon with them advance—from an ambush. [Beats on her guitar.] Shots are fired along the whole line, the Franks are unable to load, the Arabs are spread out and shoot, the Franks fly.

  Guimard. [Raises himself.] The Franks do not fly.

  Biskra. [Blows the “retreat” on a flute she has taken up.] The Franks fly when the retreat is blown.

  Guimard. They’re retreating, they’re retreating, and I am here. [Pulls off his epaulettes.] I am dead. [Falls on the floor.]

  Biskra. Yes, thou art dead. Thou knowest not that thou hast been dead for a long time. [Goes to the charnel-house, takes up a skull.]

  Guimard. Have I been dead? [Feels his face.]

  Biskra. A long time! A long time! Look at thyself in the mirror! [Shows the skull.]

  Guimard. Ah! Am I that?

  Biskra. Look at your protruding cheeks. Seest thou not how the vultures have eaten thine eyes? Dost thou not feel again the hole by your right grinder which you had taken out? Dost thou not see the hole in the chin where that pretty little imperial sprouted which thy El
ise fancied so to caress? Dost thou not see the ears which thy little Georges was wont to kiss every morning over the breakfast-table? Dost thou see how the axe has taken away the hair at the neck, when the executioner was beheading the deserter?

  [GUIMARD, who has been sitting listening with horror, falls down dead.]

  Biskra. [Who has been on her knees, gets up after she has examined his pulse. Sings.] Simoon! Simoon! [She opens the doors, the draperies flap, she puts her finger on her mouth, and falls on her back.] Yousef!

  SCENE III

  Previous characters. YOUSEF coming up from the cellar.

  Yousef. [Examines GUIMARD, looks for BISKRA.] Biskra! [He sees BISKRA, lifts her up in his arms.] Dost thou live?

  Biskra. Is the Frank dead?

  Yousef. If he is not, he shall be. Simoon! Simoon!

  Biskra. Then I live. But give me water.

  Yousef. [Props her against the wicket.] Here. Now Yousef is thine.

  Biskra. And Biskra shall be the mother of thy son. Yousef, great Yousef!

  Yousef. Strong Biskra! Stronger than the Simoon.

  [Curtain.]

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