Miss Julie and Other Plays

by August Strindberg

  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.]

  THE CREDITOR

  CHARACTERS

  THEKLA.

  ADOLF, her husband, a painter.

  GUSTAV, her divorced husband.

  Two LADIES, a WAITER.

  SCENERY

  A small watering place. Time, the present. Stage directions with reference to the actors.

  A drawing room in a watering place; furnished as above.

  Door in the middle, with a view out on the sea; side doors right and left; by the side door on the left the button of an electric bell; on the right of the door in the center a table, with a decanter of water and a glass. On the left of the door in the center a what-not; on the right a fireplace in front; on the right a round table and armchairs; on the left a sofa, a square table, a settee; on the table a small pedestal with a draped figure—pampers, books, armchairs. Only the items of furniture which are introduced into the action are referred to in the above plan. The rest of the scenery remains unaffected. It is summer, and the daytime.

  SCENE I

  [ADOLF sits on the settee on the left of the square table; his stick is propped up near him.]

  Adolf. And it’s you I’ve got to thank for all this.

  Gustav. [Walks up and down on the right, smoking a cigar.] Oh, nonsense.

  Adolf. Indeed, I have. Why, the first day after my wife went away, I lay on my sofa like a cripple and gave myself up to my depression; it was as though she had taken my crutches, and I couldn’t move from the spot.

  A few days went by, and I cheered up and began to pull myself together. The delirious nightmares which my brain had produced, went away. My head became cooler and cooler. A thought which I once had came to the surface again. My desire to work, my impulse to create, woke up. My eye got back again its capacity for sound, sharp observation. You came, old man.

  Gustav. Yes, you were in pretty low water, old man, when I came across you, and you went about on crutches. Of course, that doesn’t prove that it was simply my presence that helped so much to your recovery; you needed quiet, and you wanted masculine companionship.

  Adolf. You’re right in that, as you are in everything else you say. I used to have it in the old days. But after 1 my marriage it seemed unnecessary. I was satisfied with the friend of my heart whom I had chosen. All the same I soon got into fresh set& t and made many new acquaintances. But then my wife got jealous. She wanted to have me quite to herself; but much worse than that, my friends wanted to have her quite to themselves—and so I was left out in the cold with my jealousy.

  Gustav. You were predisposed to this illness, you know that. [He passes on the left behind the square fable, and comes to ADOLF’S left.]

  Adolf. I was afraid of losing her—and tried to prevent it. Are you surprised at it? I was never afraid for a moment that she’d be unfaithful to me.

  Gustav. What husband ever was afraid?

  Adolf. Strange, isn’t it? All I troubled about was simply this —about friends getting influence over her and so being able indirectly to acquire” power over me—and I couldn’t bear that at all.

  Gustav. So you and your wife didn’t have quite identical views?

  Adolf. I’ve told you so much, you may as well know everything —my wife is an independent character. [GUSTAV laughs.] What are you laughing at, old man?

  Gustav. Go on, go on. She’s an independent character, is she?

  Adolf. She won’t take anything.-from me.

  Gustav. But she does from everybody else?

  Adolf. [After a pause.] Yes. And I’ve felt about all this, that the only reason why my views were so awfully repugnant to her, was because they were mine, not because they appeared absurd on their intrinsic merits. For it often happened that she’d trot out my old ideas, and champion them with gusto as her own. Why, it even came about that one of my friends gave her ideas which he had borrowed direct from me. She found them delightful, she found everything delightful that didn’t come from me.

  Gustav. In other words, you’re not truly happy.

  Adolf. Oh, yes, I am. The woman’ whom I desired is mine, and I never wished for any other.

  Gustav. Do you never wish to be free either?

  Adolf. I wouldn’t like to go quite so far as that. Of course the thought crops up now and again, how calmly I should be able to live if I were free—but she scarcely leaves me before I immediately long for her again, as though she were my arm, my leg. Strange. When I’m alo
ne I sometimes feel as though she didn’t have any real self of her own, as though she were a part of my ego, a piece out of my inside, that stole away all my will, all my joi de vvvre. Why, my very marrow itself, to use an anatomical expression, is situated in her; that’s what it seems like.

  Gustav. Viewing the matter broadly, that seems quite plausible.

  Adolf. Nonsense. An independent person like she is, with such a tremendous lot of personal views, and when I met her, what was I then? Nothing. An artistic child which she brought up.

  Gustav. But afterward you developed her intellect and educated her, didn’t you?

  Adolf. No; her growth remained stationary, and I shot up.

  Gustav. Yes; it’s really remarkable, but her literary talent already began to deteriorate after her first book, or, to put it as charitably as possible, it didn’t develop any further. [He sits down opposite ADOLF on the sofa on the left.] Of course she then had the most promising subject matter—for of course she drew the portrait of her first husband—you never knew him, old man? He must have been an unmitigated ass.

  Adolf. I’ve never seen him. He was away for more than six months, but the good fellow must have been as perfect an ass as they’re made, judging by her description—you can take it from me, old man, that her description wasn’t exaggerated.

  Gustav. Quite, but why did she marry him?

  Adolf. She didn’t know him then. People only get to know one another afterward, don’t you know.

  Gustav. But, according to that, people have no business to marry until Well, the man was a tyrant, obviously.

  Adolf. Obviously?

  Gustav. What husband wouldn’t be? [Casually.] Why, old chap, you’re as much a tyrant as: any of the others.

  Adolf. Me? I? Why, I allow my wife to come and go as she jolly well pleases!

  Gustav. [Stands up.] Pah! a lot of good that is. I didn’t suppose you kept her locked up. [He turns round behind the square table and comes over to ADOLF on the right.] Don’t you mind if she’s out all night?

  Adolf. I should think I do.

  Gustav. Look here. [Resuming, his earlier tone.] Speaking as man to man, it simply makes you- ridiculous.

  Adolf. Ridiculous? Can a man’s trusting his wife make him ridiculous?

  Gustav. Of course it can. And you’ve been so for some time. No doubt about it. [He walks round the round table on the right.]

  Adolf. [Excitedly.] Me? I’d have preferred to be anything but that. I must put matters- right.

  Gustav. Don’t you get so excited, otherwise you’ll get an attack again.

  Adolf. [After a pause.] Why doesn’t she look ridiculous when’ I stay out all night?

  Gustav. Why? Don’t you bother about that. That’s how the matter stands, and while you’re fooling about moping, the mischief is done. [He goes behind the square table, and walks behind the sofa.]

  Adolf. What mischief?

  Gustav. Her husband, you know, was a tyrant, and she simply married him in order to be free. For what other way is there for a girl to get free, than by getting the so-called husband to act as cover?

  Adolf. Why, of course.

  Gustav. And now, old man, you’re the cover.

  Adolf. I?

  Gustav. As her husband.

  Adolf. [Looks absent.]

  Gustav. Am I not right?

  Adolf. [Uneasily.] I don’t know— [Pause.] A man lives for years on end with a woman without coming to a clear conclusion about the woman herself, or how she stands in relation to his own way of looking at things. And then all of a sudden a man begins to reflect—and then there’s no stopping. Gustav, old man, you’re my friend, the only friend I’ve had for a long time, and this last week you’ve given me back all my life and pluck. It seems as though you’d radiated your magnetism over me. You were the watchmaker who repaired the works in my brain, and tightened the spring. [Pause.] Don’t you see yourself how much more lucidly I think, how much more connectedly I speak, and at times it almost seems as though my voice had got back the timber it used to have in the old days.

  Gustav. I think so, too. What can be the cause of it?

  Adolf. I don’t know. Perhaps one gets accustomed to talk more softly to women. Thekla, at any rate, was always ragging me because I shrieked.

  Gustav. And then you subsided into a minor key, and allowed yourself to be put in the corner.

  Adolf. Don’t say that. [Reflectively.] That wasn’t the worst of it. Let’s talk of something else—where was I then?—I’ve got it. [GUSTAV turns round again at the back of the square table and comes to ADOLF on his right.] You came here, old man, and opened my eyes to the mysteries of my art. As a matter of fact, I’ve been feeling for some time that my interest in painting was lessening, because it didn’t provide me with a proper medium to express what I had in me; but when you gave me the reason for this state of affairs, and explained to me why painting could not possibly be the right form for the artistic impulse of the age, then I saw the true light and I recognized that it would be from now onward impossible for me to create in colors.

  Gustav. Are you so certain, old man, that you won’t be able to paint any more, that you won’t have any relapse?

  Adolf. Quite. I have tested myself. When I went to bed the evening after our conversation I reviewed your chain of argument point by point, and felt convinced that it was sound. But the next morning, when my head cleared again, after the night’s sleep, the thought flashed through me like lightning that you might be mistaken all the same. I jumped up, and snatched up a brush and palette, in order to paint, but— just think of it!— it was all up. I was no longer capable of any illusion. The whole thing was nothing but blobs of color, and I was horrified at the thought I could ever have believed I could convert anyone else to the belief that this painted canvas was anything else except painted canvas. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could as much paint again as I could become a child again.

  Gustav. You realized then that the real striving of the age, its aspiration for reality, for actuality, can only find a corresponding medium in sculpture, which gives bodies extension in the three dimensions.

  Adolf. [Hesitating.] The three dimensions? Yes—in a word, bodies.

  Gustav. And now you want to become a sculptor? That means that you were a sculptor really from the beginning, you got off the line somehow, so you only needed a guide to direct you back again to the right track. I say, when you work now, does the great joy of creation come over you?

  Adolf. Now, I live again.

  Gustav. May I see what you’re doing?

  Adolf. [Undraping a figure on the small table.] A female figure.

  Gustav. [Probing.] Without a model, and yet so lifelike?

  Adolf. [Heavily.] Yes, but it is like somebody; extraordinary how this woman is in me, just as I am in her.

  Gustav. That last is not so extraordinary—do you know anything about transfusion?

  Adolf. Blood transfusion? Yes.

  Gustav. It seems to me that you’ve allowed your veins to be opened a bit too much. The examination of this figure clears up many things which I’d previously only surmised. You loved her infinitely?

  Adolf. Yes, so much that I could never tell whether she is I, or I am her, when she laughed I laughed, when she cried I cried, and when—just imagine it—our child came into the world I suffered the same as she did.

  Gustav. [Stepping a little to the right.] Look here, old chap, I am awfully sorry to have to tell you, but the symptoms of epilepsy are already manifesting themselves.

  Adolf. [Crushed.] In me? What makes you say so?

  Gustav. Because I watched these symptoms in a younger brother of mine, who eventually died of excess. [He sits down in the armchair by the circular table.]

  Adolf. How did it manifest itself—that disease, I mean?

  [GUSTAV gesticulates vividly; ADOLF watches with strained attention, and involuntarily imitates GUSTAV’S gestures.]

  Gustav. A ghastly sight. If you feel at all off colo
r, I’d rather not harrow you by describing the symptoms.

  Adolf. [Nervously.] Go on, go on.

  Gustav. Well, it’s like this. Fate had given the youngster for a wife a little innocent, with kiss-curls, dove-like eyes, and a baby face, from which there spoke the pure soul of an angel. In spite of that, the little one managed to appropriate the man’s prerogative.

  Adolf. What is that?

  Gustav. Initiative, of course; and the inevitable result was that the angel came precious near taking him away to heaven. He first had to be on the cross and feel the nails in his flesh.

  Adolf. [Suffocating.] Tell me, what was it like?

  Gustav. [Slowly.] There were times when he and I would sit quite quietly by each other and chat, and then—I’d scarcely been speaking a few minutes before his face became ashy white, his limbs were paralyzed, and his thumbs turned in towards the palm of the hand. [With a gesture.] Like that! [ADOLF imitates the gesture.] And his eyes were shot with blood, and he began to chew, do you see, like this. [He moves his lips as though chewing; ADOLF imitates him again.] The saliva stuck in his throat, the chest contracted as though it had been compre?1ed by screws on a joiner’s bench; there was a flicker in his pupils like gas jets, foam spurted from his mouth, and he sank gently back in the chair as though he were drowning. Then—

  Adolf. [Hissing.] Stop!

  Gustav. Then—are you unwell?