CHARACTERS
Miss JULIE, aged twenty-five.
JOHN, a servant, aged thirty.
CHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five.
SCENERY
The action of the play takes place on Midsummer Night, in the Count’s kitchen.
CHRISTINE stands on the left, by the hearth, and fries’ something in a pan. She has on a light blouse and a kitchen apron. JOHN comes in through the glass door in livery. He holds in his hand a pair of big riding boots with spurs, which he places on the noor at the back, in a visible position.
John. Miss Julie is mad again to-night—absolutely mad!
Christine. Oh! And so you’re here, are you?
John. I accompanied the Count to the station, and when I passed the barn on my way back I went in to have a dance. At that time Miss Julie was dancing with that man Forster. When she noticed me, she made straight for me and asked me to be her partner in the waltz, and from that moment she danced in a way such as I’ve never seen anything of the kind before. She is simply crazy.
Christine. She’s always been that, but never as much as in the last fortnight, since the engagement was broken off.
John. Yes, what an affair that was, to be sure. The man was certainly a fine fellow, even though he didn’t have much cash. Well, to be sure, they have so many whims and fancies. [He sits down at the right by the table.] In any case, it’s strange that the young lady should prefer to stay at home with the servants rather than to accompany her father to her relations, isn’t it?
Christine. Yes. The odds are that she feels herself a little embarrassed after the affair with her young man.
John. Maybe; but at any rate he was a good chap. Do you know, Christine, how it came about? I saw the whole show, though I didn’t let them see that I noticed anything.
Christine. What! You saw it?
John. Yes, that I did. They were one evening down there in the stable, and the young lady was “training” him, as she called it. What do you think she was doing? She made him jump over the riding whip like a dog which one is teaching to hop. He jumped over twice, and each time he got a cut, but the third time he snatched her riding whip out of her hand, smashed it into smithereens and—cleared out.
Christine. Was that it? No, you can’t mean it?
John. Yes, that was how it happened. Can’t you give me something nice to eat, now, Christine?
Christine.[Takes up the plate and puts it before JOHN.] Well, there’s only a little bit of liver, which I’ve cut off the joint.
John.[Sniffs the food.] Ah, very nice, that’s my special dish. [He feels the plate.] But you might have warmed up the plate.
Christine. Why, you’re even more particular than the Count himself, once you get going. [She draws her fingers caressingly through his hair.]
John.[Wickedly.] Ugh, you mustn’t excite me like that, you know jolly well how sensitive I am.
Christine. There, there now, it was only because I love you.
John.[Eats. CHRISTINE gets out a bottle of beer.] Beer on Midsummer’s Night! Not for me, thank you. I can go one better than that myself. [He opens the sideboard and takes out a bottle of red wine with a yellow label.] Yellow label, do you see, dear? Just give me a glass. A wineglass, of course, when a fellow’s going to drink neat wine.
Christine.[Turns again toward the fireplace and puts a small saucepan on.] God pity the woman who ever gets you for a husband, a growler like you!
John. Oh, don’t jaw! You’d be only too pleased if you only got a fellow like me, and I don’t think for a minute that you’re in any way put out by my being called your best boy. [Tastes the wine.] Ah! very nice, very nice. Not quite mellowed enough though, that’s the only thing. [He warms the glass with his hand.] We bought this at Dijon. It came to four francs the liter, without the glass, and then there was the duty as well. What are you cooking there now? It makes the most infernal stink?
Christine. Oh, that’s just some assafoetida, which Miss Julie wants to have for Diana.
John. You ought to express yourself a little more prettily, Christine. Why have you got to get up on a holiday evening and cook for the brute? Is it ill, eh?
Christine. Yes, it is. It slunk out to the dog in the courtyard, and there it played the fool, and the young lady doesn’t want to know anything about it, do you see?
John. Yes, in one respect the young lady is too proud, and in another not proud enough. Just like the Countess was when she was alive. She felt most at home in the kitchen, and in the stable, but she would never ride a horse; she’d go about with dirty cuffs, but insisted on having the Count’s coronet on the buttons. The young lady, so far now as she is. concerned, doesn’t take enough trouble about either herself or her person; in a manner of speaking she is not refined. Why, only just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she snatched Forster away from Anna, and asked him to dance with herself. We wouldn’t behave like that; but that’s what happens when the gentry make themselves cheap. Then they are cheap, and no mistake about it. But she is real stately! Superb! Whew! What shoulders, what a bust and—
Christine. Ye-e-s; but she makes up a good bit, too. I know what Clara says, who helps her to dress.
John. Oh, Clara! You women are always envious of each other. I’ve been out with her and seen her ride, and then how she dances!
Christine. I say, John, won’t you dance with me when I’m ready?
John. Of course I will.
Christine. Promise me?
John. Promise? If I say I’ll do a thing, then I always do it. Anyway, thanks very much for the food, it was damned good. [He puts the cork back into the bottle. The young lady, at the glass door, speaks to people outside.] I’ll be back in a minute. [He conceals the bottle of wine in a napkin, and stands up respectfully.]
Julie.[Enters and goes to CHRISTINE by the fireplace.] Well, is it ready?
Christine.[Intimates to her by signs that JOHN is present.]
John.[Gallantly.] Do the ladies want to talk secrets?
Julie.[Strikes hint in the face with her handkerchief.] Is he inquisitive?
John. Ah! what a nice smell of violets.
Julie.[Coquettishly.] Impudent person! Is the fellow then an expert in perfumes? [She goes behind the table.]
John.[With gentle affectation.] Have you ladies then been brewing a magic potion this Midsummer Night? Something so as to be able to read one’s fortunes in the stars, so that you get a sight of the future?
Julie.[Sharply.] Yes, if he manages to see that, he must have very good eyes. [To CHRISTINE.] Pour it into a half bottle and cork it securely. Let the man come now and dance the schottische with me. John? [She lets her handkerchief fall on the tafrle.]
John.[Hesitating.] I don’t want to be disobliging to anybody, but I promised Christine this dance.
Julie. Oh, well, she can get somebody else. [She goes to CHRISTINE.] What do you say, Christine? Won’t you lend me John?
Christine. I haven’t got any say in the matter. If you are so condescending, Miss, it wouldn’t at all do for him to refuse. You just go and be grateful for such an honor.
John. Speaking frankly, and without meaning any offense, do you think it’s quite wise, Miss Julie, to dance twice in succession with the same gentleman, particularly as the people here are only too ready to draw all kinds of conclusions?
Julie.[Explodes.] What do you mean? What conclusion? What does the man mean?
John.[Evasively.] As you won’t understand me, Miss, I must express myself more clearly. It doesn’t look well to prefer one of your inferiors to others who expect the same exceptional honor.
Julie. Prefer? What idea is the man getting into his head? I am absolutely astonished. I, the mistress of the house, honor my servants’ dance with my presence, and if I actually want to dance I want to do it with a man who can steer, so that I haven’t got the bore of being laughed at.
John. I await your orders, miss; I am at your service.
Julie.[Softly.] Don’t talk now of orders, this evening we’re simply merry men and women at a revel, and we lay aside all rank. Give me your arm; don’t be uneasy, Christine, I’m not going to entice your treasure away from you.
[JOHN offers her his arm and leads her through the glass door. CHRISTINE alone. Faint violin music at some distance to schottische time. CHRISTINE keeps time with the music, clears the table where JOHN had been eating, washes the plate at the side-table, dries it and puts it in the cupboard. She then takes off her kitchen apron, takes a small mirror out of the table drawer, puts it opposite the basket of lilacs, lights a taper, heats a hairpin, with which she curls her front hair; then she goes to the glass door and washes, comes back to the table, finds the young lady’s handkerchief, which she has forgotten, takes it and smells it; she then pensively spreads it out, stretches it fiat’ and folds it in four. JOHN comes back alone through the glass door.]
John. Yes, she is mad, to dance like that; and everybody stands by the door and grins at her. What do you say about it, Christine?
Christine. Ah, it’s just her time, and then she always takes on so strange. But won’t you come now and dance with me?
John. You aren’t offended with me that I cut your last dance?
Christine. No, not the least bit; you know that well enough, and I know my place besides.
John.[Puts his hand, round her waist.] You’re a sensible girl, Christine, and you’d make an excellent housekeeper.
Julie.[Comes in through the glass door. She is disagreeably surprised. With forced humor.] Charming cavalier you are, to be sure, to run away from your partner.
John. On the contrary, Miss Julie, I’ve been hurrying all I know, as you see, to find the girl I left behind me.
Julie. Do you know, none of the others dance like you do. But why do you go about in livery on a holiday evening? Take it off at once.
John. In that case, miss, I must ask you to leave me for a moment, because my black coat hangs up here. [He goes with a corresponding gesture toward the right.]
Julie. Is he bashful on my account? Just about changing a coat! Is he going into his room and coming back again? So far as I am concerned he can stay here; I’ll turn round.
John. By your leave, miss. [He goes to the left, his arm is visible when he changes his coat.]
Julie.[To CHRISTINE.] I say, Christine, is John your sweetheart, that he’s so thick with you?
Christine.[Going, toward the fireplace.] My sweetheart? Yes, if you like. We call it that.
Julie. Call it?
Christine. Well, you yourself, Miss, had a sweetheart and
Julie. Yes, we were properly engaged.
Christine. But nothing at all came of it. [She sits down- and gradually goes to sleep.]
John.[In a black coat and with a black hat.]
Julie. Tres gentil, Monsieur Jean, tres gentil!
John. Vous voulez plaisanter, madame!
Julie. Et vous voulez parler français? And where did you pick that up?
John. In Switzerland, when I was a waiter in one of the best hotels in Lucerne.
Julie. But you look quite like a gentleman in that coat. Charming. [She sits down on the right, by the table.]
John. Ah! you’re flattering me.
Julie.[Offended.] Flatter? You?
John. My natural modesty won’t allow me to imagine that you’re paying true compliments to a man like me, so I took the liberty of supposing that you’re exaggerating or, in a manner of speaking, flattering.
Julie. Where did you learn to string your words together like that? You must have been to the theater a great deal?
John. Quite right. I’ve been to no end of places.
Julie. But you were born here in this neighborhood.
John. My father was odd man to the State attorney of this parish, and I saw you, Miss, when you were a child, although you didn’t notice me.
Julie. Really?
John. Yes, and I remember one incident in particular. Um, yes—I mustn’t speak about that.
Julie. Oh, yes—you tell me. What? Just to please me.
John. No, really I can’t now. Perhaps some other time.
Julie. Some other time means never. Come, is it then so dangerous to tell me now?
John. It’s not dangerous, but it’s much best to leave it alone. Just look at her over there. [He points to CHRISTINE, who has gone to sleep in a chair by the fireplace.]
Julie. She’ll make a cheerful wife. Perhaps she snores as well.
John. She doesn’t do that—she speaks in her sleep.
Julie. How do you know that she speaks in her sleep?
John. I’ve heard it. [Pause—in which they look at each other.]
Julie. Why don’t you sit down?
John. I shouldn’t take such a liberty in your presence.
Julie. And if I older you to—
John. Then I obey.
Julie. Sit down, but, wait a moment, can’t you give me something to drink?
John. I don’t know what’s in the refrigerator. I don’t think there’s anything except beer.
Julie. That’s not to be sniffed at. Personally I’m so simple in my tastes that I prefer it to wine.
John.[Takes a bottle out of the refrigerator and draws the cork; he looks in the cupboard for a glass and plate, on which he serves the beer.] May I offer you some?
Julie. Thanks. Won’t you have some as well?
John. I’m not what you might call keen on beer, but if you order me, Miss
Julie. Order? It seems to me that as a courteous cavalier you might keep your partner company.
John. A very sound observation. [He opens another bottle and takes a glass.]
Julie. Drink my health! [JOHN hesitates.] I believe the old duffer is bashful.
John.[On his knees, mock heroically, lifts up his glass.] The health of my mistress!
Julie. Bravo! Now, as a finishing touch, you must kiss my shoe. [JOHN hesitates, then catches sharply hold of her foot and kisses it lightly.] First rate! You should have gone on the stage.
John.[Gets up.] This kind of thing mustn’t go any further, Miss. Anybody might come in and see us.
Julie. What would it matter?
John. People would talk, and make no bones about what they said either, and if you knew, Miss, how their tongues have already been wagging, then
Julie. What did they say then? Tell me, but sit down.
John.[Sits down.] I don’t want to hurt you, but you made use of expressions—which pointed to innuendoes of such a kind—yes, you’ll understand this perfectly well yourself. You’re not a child any more, and, if a lady is seen to drink alone with a man—even if it’s only a servant, tête-à-tête at night—then—
Julie. What then? And, besides, we’re not alone: Christine is here.
John. Yes, asleep.
Julie. Then I’ll wake her up. [She gets up.] Christ tine, are you asleep?
Christine.[In her sleep.] Bla—bla—bla—bla.
Julie. Christine! The woman can go on sleeping.
Christine.[In her sleep.] The Count’s boots are already done—put the coffee out—at once, at once, at once—oh, oh—ah!
Julie.[Takes hold of her by the nose.] Wake up, will you?
John.[Harshly.] You mustn’t disturb a person who’s asleep.
Julie.[Sharply.] What?
John. A person who’s been on her legs all day by the fireplace will naturally be tired when night comes; and sleep should be respected.
Julie.[In another tone.] That’s a pretty thought. and does you credit—thank you. [She holds her hand out to JOHN.] Come out now and pick some clover for me. [During the subsequent dialogue CHRISTINE wakes up, and exit in a dosed condition to the right, to go to bed.]
John. With you, Miss?
Julie. With me?
John. It’s impossible, absolutely impossible.
Julie. I don’t understand what you mean. Can it be possible that you imagine such a thing for a single minute.
John. Me—no, but the people—yes.
Julie. What! That I should be in love with a servant?
John. I’m not by any means an educated man, but there have been cases, and nothing is sacred to the people.
Julie. I do believe the man is an aristocrat.
John. Yes, that I am.
Julie. And I’m on the down path.
John. Don’t go down, Miss. Take my advice, nobody will believe that you went down of your own free will. People will always say you fell.
Julie. I have a better opinion of people than you have. Come and try. Come. [She challenges him with her eyes.]
John. You are strange, you know.
Julie. Perhaps I am, but so are you. Besides, everything is strange. Life, men, the whole thing is simply an iceberg which is driven out on the water until it sinks—sinks. I have a dream which comes up now and again, and now it haunts me. I am sitting on the top of a high pillar and can’t see any possibility of getting down, I feel dizzy when I look down, but I have to get down all the same. I haven’t got the pluck to throw myself off. I can’t keep my balance and I want to fall over, but I don’t fall. And I don’t get a moment’s peace until I’m down below. No rest until I’ve got to the ground, and when I’ve got down to the ground I want to get right into the earth. Have you ever felt anything like that?
John. No; I usually dream I’m lying under a high tree in a gloomy forest. I want to get up right to the top and look round at the light landscape where the sun shines, and plunder the birds’ nests where the golden eggs lie, and I climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and so smooth, and it’s such a long way to the first branch; but I know, if only I can get to the first branch, I can climb to the top, as though it were a ladder. I haven’t got there yet, but I must get there, even though it were only in my dreams.
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?
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 living 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?
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.[Approaches 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?
Christine. 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.
John. Yes—but [There are two loud rings in succession. JULIE starts; JOHN quickly changes his coat, on the left.] The Count’s at home—just think if Christine [He goes to the speaking tube at the back, whistles, and listens.]
Julie. He must have already gone to his secretary by now.
John. It’s John, my lord. [He listens. What the Count says is inaudible.] Yes, my lord. [He listens.] Yes, my lord. At once. [He listens.] Very well, my lord. [He listens.] Yes, in half-an-hour.
Julie.[Extremely nervous.] What did he say? My God! what did he say?
John. He asked for his boots and his coffee in half-an-hour.
Julie. In half-an-hour then. Oh, I’m so tired, I can’t do anything; I can’t repent, I can’t run away, I can’t stay, I can’t live, I can’t die. Help me now! Give me orders and I’ll obey like a dog. Do me this last service! Save my honor—save my name! You know what I ought to will, but don’t will. Do you will it and order me to accomplish it.
John. I don’t know—but now I can’t either. I can’t make it out myself—it’s just as though it were the result of this coat I’ve just put on, but I can’t give you any orders. And now, after the Count has spoken to me, I can’t explain it properly—but—ah! it’s the livery which I’ve got on my back. I believe if the Count were to come in now and order me to cut my throat I’d do it on the spot.
Julie. Then just do as though you were he, and I were you. You could imagine it quite well a minute ago, when you were before me on your knees. Then you were a knight. Have you ever been to the theater and seen the mesmerist? [JOHN makes a gesture of assent.] He says to the medium, “Take the broom"; he takes it; he says “Sweep,” and he sweeps.
John. But in that case the medium must be asleep.
Julie.[Exalted.] I am already asleep. The whole room looks as though it were full of smoke—and you look like an iron furnace—which is like a man in black clothes and top hat—and your eyes glow like coals when the fire goes out—and your face is a white blur like cinders. The sunlight has now reached the floor and streams over JOHN.] It’s so warm and fine. [She rubs her hands as though she were warming them by a fire.] And then it’s so light—and so quiet.
John.[Takes the razor and puts it in her hand.] There is the broom, go, now that it’s light, outside into the barn—and [He whispers something in her ear.]
Julie.[Awake.] Thank you. Now I’m going to have peace, but tell me now that the first shall have their share of grace too. Tell me that, even though you don’t believe it.
John. The first? No, I can’t do that; but, one minute, Miss Julie—I’ve got it, you don’t belong any longer to the first—you are beneath the last.
Julie. That’s true—I am beneath the very last, I am the last myself. Oh—but now I can’t go. Tell me again that I must go.
John. No, I can’t do that again now either. I can’t.
Julie. And the first shall be last.
John. Don’t think, don’t think! You rob me of all my strength and make a coward of me. What? I believe the clock was moving. No—shall we put paper in? To be so funky of the sound of a clock! But it’s something more than a clock—there’s something that sits behind it—a hand puts it in motion, and something else sets the hand in motion—just put your fingers to your ears, and then it strikes worse again. It strikes until you give an answer and then it’s too late, and then come the police—and then [Two loud rings in succession, JOHN starts, then he pulls himself together.] It’s awful, but there’s no other way out. Go! [ JULIE goes with a firm step outside the door.]
[Curtain.]