Miss Julie and Other Plays Read online

  Miss Julie and Other Plays

  August Strindberg

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

  August Strindberg

  MISS JULIE AND OTHER PLAYS

  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, Mis
s, 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.