MISS JULIE

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.