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Countess Julie

<h1> PLAYS: </h1> <h2> THE FATHER; COUNTESS JULIE; THE OUTLAW; THE STRONGER </h2> <h3> By August Strindberg </h3> <h4> Translated by Edith and Warner Oland </h4> <h2> COUNTESS JULIE </h2> CHARACTERS COUNTESS JULIE, twenty-five years old JEAN, a valet, thirty KRISTIN, a cook, thirty-five FARM SERVANTS The action takes place on Saint John's night, the mid-summer festival surviving from pagan times. [SCENE.—A large kitchen. The ceiling and walls are partially covered by draperies and greens. The back wall slants upward from left side of scene. On back wall, left, are two shelves filled with copper kettles, iron casseroles and tin pans. The shelves are trimmed with fancy scalloped paper. To right of middle a large arched entrance with glass doors through which one sees a fountain with a statue of Cupid, syringa bushes in bloom and tall poplars. To left corner of scene a large stove with hood decorated with birch branches. To right, servants' dining table of white pine and a few chairs. On the end of table stands a Japanese jar filled with syringa blossoms. The floor is strewn with juniper branches.] [Near stove, an ice-box, sink and dish-table. A large old-fashioned bell, hangs over the door, to left of door a speaking tube.] [Kristin stands at stove engaged in cooking something. She wears a light cotton dress and kitchen apron. Jean comes in wearing livery; he carries a large pair of riding-boots with spurs, which he puts on floor.] JEAN. Tonight Miss Julie is crazy again, perfectly crazy. KRISTIN. So—you're back at last. JEAN. I went to the station with the Count and coming back I went in to the barn and danced and then I discovered Miss Julie there leading the dance with the gamekeeper. When she spied me, she rushed right toward me and asked me to waltz, and then she waltzed so—never in my life have I seen anything like it! Ah—she is crazy tonight. KRISTIN. She has always been. But never so much as in the last fortnight, since her engagement was broken off. JEAN. Yes, what about that gossip? He seemed like a fine fellow although he wasn't rich! Ach! they have so much nonsense about them. [Seats himself at table.] It's queer about Miss Julie though—to prefer staying here at home among these people, eh, to going away with her father to visit her relatives, eh? KRISTIN. She's probably shamefaced about breaking off with her intended. JEAN. No doubt! but he was a likely sort just the same. Do you know, Kristin, how it happened? I saw it, although I didn't let on. KRISTIN. No—did you see it? JEAN. Yes, indeed, I did. They were out in the stable yard one evening and she was "training" him as she called it. Do you know what happened? She made him leap over her riding whip, the way you teach a dog to jump. He jumped it twice and got a lash each time; but the third time he snatched the whip from her hand and broke it into pieces. And then he vanished! KRISTIN. Was that the way it happened? No, you don't say so! JEAN. Yes, that's the way the thing happened. But what have you got to give me that's good, Kristin? KRISTIN. [She takes things from the pans on stove and serves them to him.] Oh, it's only a bit of kidney that I cut out of the veal steak for you. JEAN [Smelling the food]. Splendid! My favorite delicacy. [Feeling of plate]. But you might have warmed the plate. KRISTIN. You're fussier than the Count, when you get started. [Tweaks his hair.] JEAN. Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. KRISTIN. Oh—there, there! you know I was only loving you. [Jean eats, and Kristin opens bottle of beer.] JEAN. Beer on midsummer night—thank you, no! I have something better than that myself. [Takes bottle of wine from drawer of table.] Yellow seal, how's that? Now give me a glass—a wine glass you understand, of course, when one drinks the genuine. KRISTIN. [Fetches a glass. Then goes to stove and puts on casserole.] Heaven help the woman who gets you for her husband. Such a fuss budget! JEAN. Oh, talk! You ought to be glad to get such a fine fellow as I am. And I don't think it's done you any harm because I'm considered your intended. [Tastes wine.] Excellent, very excellent! Just a little too cold. [Warms glass with hands]. We bought this at Dijon. It stood at four francs a litre in the bulk; then of course there was the duty besides. What are you cooking now that smells so infernally? KRISTIN. Oh, it's some devil's mess that Miss Julie must have for Diana. JEAN. Take care of your words, Kristin. But why should you stand there cooking for that damned dog on a holiday evening? Is it sick, eh? KRISTIN. Yes, it's sick. Diana sneaked out with the gatekeeper's mongrels and now something is wrong. Miss Julie can't stand that. JEAN. Miss Julie has a great deal of pride about some things—but not enough about others! Just like her mother in her lifetime; she thrived best in the kitchen or the stable, but she must always drive tandem—never one horse! She would go about with soiled cuffs but she had to have the Count's crest on her cuff buttons. And as for Miss Julie, she doesn't take much care of her appearance either. I should say she isn't refined. Why just now out there she pulled the forester from Anna's side and asked him to dance with her. We wouldn't do things that way. But when the highborn wish to unbend they become vulgar. Splendid she is though! Magnificent! Ah, such shoulders and— KRISTIN. Oh, don't exaggerate. I've heard what Clara says who dresses her sometimes, I have. JEAN. Ha! Clara—you women are always jealous of each other. I who've been out riding with her—!!! And such a dancer! KRISTIN. Come now, Jean, don't you want to dance with me when I'm through? JEAN. Of course I want to. KRISTIN. That is a promise? JEAN. Promise! When I say I will do a thing I do it! Thanks for the supper—it was excellent. [Pushes cork in the bottle with a bang. Miss Julie appears in doorway, speaking to someone outside.] JULIE. I'll be back soon, but don't let things wait for me. [Jean quickly puts bottle in table drawer and rises very respectfully.] [Enter Miss Julie and goes to Kristin.] JULIE. Is it done? [Kristin indicating Jean's presence.] JEAN [Gallantly]. Have you secrets between you? JULIE. [Flipping handkerchief in his face]. Curious, are you? JEAN. How sweet that violet perfume is! JULIE [Coquettishly]. Impudence! Do you appreciate perfumes too? Dance—that you can do splendidly. [Jean looks towards the cooking stove]. Don't look. Away with you. JEAN [Inquisitive but polite]. Is it some troll's dish that you are both concocting for midsummer night? Something to pierce the future with and evoke the face of your intended? JULIE [Sharply]. To see him one must have sharp eyes. [To Kristin]. Put it into a bottle and cork it tight. Come now, Jean and dance a schottische with me. [Jean hesitates.] JEAN. I don't wish to be impolite to anyone but—this dance I promised to Kristin. JULIE. Oh, she can have another—isn't that so, Kristin? Won't you lend Jean to me. KRISTIN. It's not for me to say, if Miss Julie is so gracious it's not for me to say no. [To Jean]. Go you and be grateful for the honor. JEAN. Well said—but not wishing any offense I wonder if it is prudent for Miss Julie to dance twice in succession with her servant, especially as people are never slow to find meaning in— JULIE [Breaking out]. In what? What sort of meaning? What were you going to say? JEAN [Taken aback]. Since Miss Julie does not understand I must speak plainly. It may look strange to prefer one of your—underlings—to others who covet the same honor— JULIE. To prefer—what a thought! I, the lady of the house! I honor the people with my presence and now that I feel like dancing I want to have a partner who knows how to lead to avoid being ridiculous. JEAN. As Miss Julie commands. I'm here to serve. JULIE [Mildly]. You mustn't look upon that as a command. Tonight we are all in holiday spirits—full of gladness and rank is flung aside. So, give me your arm! Don't be alarmed, Kristin, I shall not take your sweetheart away from you. [Jean offers arm. They exit.] [PANTOMIME.—Played as though the actress were really alone. Turns her back to the audience when necessary. Does not look out into the auditorium. Does not hurry as though fearing the audience might grow restless. Soft violin music from the distance, schottische time. Kristin hums with the music. She cleans the table; washes plate, wipes it and puts it in the china closet. Takes off her apron and then opens drawer of table and takes a small hand glass and strands it against a flower pot on table. Lights a candle and heats a hair pin with which she crimps her hair around her forehead. After that she goes to door at back and listens. Then she returns to table and sees the Countess' handkerchief, picks it up, smells of it, then smooths it out and folds it. Enter Jean.] JEAN. She is crazy I tell you! To dance like that! And the people stand grinning at her behind the doors. What do you say to that, Kristin? KRISTIN. Oh, didn't I say she's been acting queer lately? But isn't it my turn to dance now? JEAN. You are not angry because I let myself be led by the forelock? KRISTIN. No, not for such a little thing. That you know well enough. And I know my place too— JEAN [Puts arm around her waist]. You're a pretty smart girl, Kristin, and you ought to make a good wife. [Enter Miss Julie.] JULIE [Disagreeably surprised, but with forced gaiety]. You're a charming cavalier to run away from your partner. JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julie, I have hastened to my neglected one as you see. JULIE [Changing subject]. Do you know, you dance wonderfully well! But why are you in livery on a holiday night? Take it off immediately. JEAN. Will you excuse me—my coat hangs there. [Goes R. and takes coat.] JULIE. Does it embarrass you to change your coat in my presence? Go to your room then—or else stay and I'll turn my back. JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julie. [Exit Jean R. One sees his arm as he changes coat.] JULIE [To Kristin]. Is Jean your sweetheart, that he is so devoted? KRISTIN. Sweetheart? Yes, may it please you. Sweetheart—that's what they call it. JULIE. Call it? KRISTIN. Oh Miss Julie has herself had a sweetheart and— JULIE. Yes, we were engaged— KRISTIN. But it came to nothing. [Enter Jean in black frock coat.] JULIE. Tres gentil, Monsieur Jean, tres gentil. JEAN. Vous voulez plaisanter, Mademoiselle. JULIE. Et vous voulez parler francais? Where did you learn that? JEAN. In Switzerland where I was butler in the largest hotel at Lucerne. JULIE. Why, you look like a gentleman in your frock coat. Charmant! [Seats herself by table.] JEAN. You flatter me! JULIE. Flatter! [Picking him up on the word.] JEAN. My natural modesty forbids me to believe that you could mean these pleasant things that you say to a—such as I am—and therefore I allowed myself to fancy that you overrate or, as it is called, flatter. JULIE. Where did you learn to use words like that? Have you frequented the theatres much? JEAN. I have frequented many places, I have! JULIE. But you were born here in this neighborhood? JEAN. My father was a deputy under the public prosecutor, and I saw Miss Julie as a child—although she didn't see me! JULIE. No, really? JEAN. Yes, I remember one time in particular. But I mustn't talk about that. JULIE. Oh yes, do, when was it? JEAN. No really—not now, another time perhaps. JULIE. "Another time" is a good for nothing. Is it so dreadful then? JEAN. Not dreadful—but it goes against the grain. [Turns and points to Kristin, who has fallen asleep in a chair near stove]. Look at her. JULIE. She'll make a charming wife! Does she snore too? JEAN. No, but she talks in her sleep. JULIE [Cynically]. How do you know that she talks in her sleep? JEAN [Boldly]. I have heard her.[Pause and they look at each other.] JULIE. Why don't you sit down? JEAN. I can't allow myself to do so in your presence. JULIE. But if I command you? JEAN. Then I obey. JULIE. Sit down then. But wait—can't you get me something to drink first? JEAN. I don't know what there is in the icebox. Nothing but beer, probably. JULIE. Is beer nothing? My taste is so simple that I prefer it to wine. [Jean takes out beer and serves it on plate.] JEAN. Allow me. JULIE. Won't you drink too? JEAN. I am no friend to beer—but if Miss Julie commands. JULIE [Gaily]. Commands! I should think as a polite cavalier you might join your lady. JEAN. Looking at it in that way you are quite right. [Opens another bottle of beer and fills glass.] JULIE. Give me a toast! [Jean hesitates.] JULIE [Mockingly]. Old as he is, I believe the man is bashful! JEAN [On his knee with mock gallantry, raises glass]. A health to my lady of the house! JULIE. Bravo! Now you must kiss my slipper. Then the thing is perfect. [Jean hesitates and then seizes her foot and kisses it lightly.] JULIE. Splendid! You should have been an actor. JEAN [Rising]. But this mustn't go any further, Miss Julie. What if someone should come in and see us? JULIE. What harm would that do? JEAN. Simply that it would give them a chance to gossip. And if Miss Julie only knew how their tongues wagged just now—then— JULIE. What did they say? Tell me. And sit down now. JEAN [Sitting]. I don't wish to hurt you, but they used an expression—threw hints of a certain kind—but you are not a child, you can understand. When one sees a lady drinking alone with a man—let alone a servant—at night—then— JULIE. Then what? And for that matter, we are not alone. Kristin is here. JEAN. Sleeping! Yes. JULIE. Then I shall wake her. [Rises]. Kristin, are you asleep? KRISTIN. [In her sleep]. Bla—bla—bla—bla. JULIE. Kristin! She certainly can sleep. [Goes to Kristin.] KRISTIN. [In her sleep]. The Count's boots are polished—put on the coffee—soon—soon—soon. Oh—h-h-h—puh! [Breathes heavily. Julie takes her by the nose.] JULIE. Won't you wake up? JEAN [Sternly]. Don't disturb the sleeping. JULIE [Sharply]. What? JEAN. Anyone who has stood over the hot stove all day long is tired when night comes. One should respect the weary. JULIE. That's a kind thought—and I honor it. [Offers her hand.] Thanks for the suggestion. Come out with me now and pick some syringas. [Kristin has awakened and goes to her room, right, in a sort of sleep stupified way.] JEAN. With Miss Julie? JULIE. With me. JEAN. But that wouldn't do—decidedly not. JULIE. I don't understand you. Is it possible that you fancy that I— JEAN. No—not I, but people. JULIE. What? That I'm in love with my coachman? JEAN. I am not presumptuous, but we have seen instances—and with the people nothing is sacred. JULIE. I believe he is an aristocrat! JEAN. Yes, I am. JULIE. But I step down— — JEAN. Don't step down, Miss Julie. Listen to me—no one would believe that you stepped down of your own accord; people always say that one falls down. JULIE. I think better of the people than you do. Come—and try them—come! [Dares him with a look.] JEAN. Do you know that you are wonderful? JULIE. Perhaps. But you are too. Everything is wonderful for that matter. Life, people—everything. Everything is wreckage, that drifts over the water until it sinks, sinks. I have the same dream every now and then and at this moment I am reminded of it. I find myself seated at the top of a high pillar and I see no possible way to get down. I grow dizzy when I look down, but down I must. But I'm not brave enough to throw myself; I cannot hold fast and I long to fall—but I don't fall. And yet I can find no rest or peace until I shall come down to earth; and if I came down to earth I would wish myself down in the ground. Have you ever felt like that? JEAN. No, I dream that I'm lying in a dark wood under a tall tree and I would up—up to the top, where I can look far over the fair landscape, where the sun is shining. I climb—climb, to plunder the birds' nests up there where the golden eggs lie, but the tree trunk is so thick, so smooth, and the first limb is so high! But I know if I reached the first limb I should climb as though on a ladder, to the top. I haven't reached it yet, but I shall reach it, if only in the dream. JULIE. Here I stand talking about dreams with you. Come now, just out in the park. [She offers her arm and they start.] JEAN. We should sleep on nine midsummer flowers tonight and then our dreams would come true. [She turns, Jean quickly holds a hand over his eye.] JULIE. What is it, something in your eye? JEAN. Oh, it is nothing—just a speck. It will be all right in a moment. JULIE. It was some dust from my sleeve that brushed against you. Now sit down and let me look for it. [Pulls him into a chair, looks into his eye.] Now sit still, perfectly still. [Uses corner of her handkerchief in his eye. Strikes his hand.] So—will you mind? I believe you are trembling, strong man that you are. [Touching his arm.] And such arms! JEAN [Warningly.] Miss Julie! JULIE. Yes, Monsieur Jean! JEAN. Attention. Je ne suis qu'un homme! JULIE. Will you sit still! So, now it is gone! Kiss my hand and thank me! [Jean rises.] JEAN. Miss Julie, listen to me. Kristin has gone to bed now—will you listen to me— JULIE. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Listen to me— JULIE. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Yes, but blame yourself. JULIE. For what? JEAN. For what? Are you a child at twenty-five? Don't you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? JULIE. Not for me. I am insured! JEAN. No, you are not. But even if you are, there is inflammable material in the neighborhood. JULIE. Might that be you? JEAN. Yes, not because it is I, but because I'm a young man— JULIE [Scornfully]. With a grand opportunity—what inconceivable presumption! A Don Juan perhaps! Or a Joseph! On my soul, I believe he is a Joseph! JEAN. You do? JULIE. Almost. [Jean rushes towards her and tries to take her in his arms to kiss her.] JULIE [Gives him a box on the ear]. Shame on you. JEAN. Are you in earnest, or fooling? JULIE. In earnest. JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago, too. You play too seriously with what is dangerous. Now I'm tired of playing and beg to be excused that I may go on with my work. The Count must have his boots in time, and it is long past midnight. [Jean picks up boots.] JULIE. Put those boots away. JEAN. No, that is my work which it is my duty to do, but I was not hired to be your play thing and that I shall never be. I think too well of myself for that. JULIE. You are proud. JEAN. In some things—not in others. JULIE. Were you ever in love? JEAN. We do not use that word, but I have liked many girls. One time I was sick because I couldn't have the one I wanted—sick, you understand, like the princesses in the Arabian Nights who could not eat nor drink for love sickness. JULIE. Who was she? [Jean is silent.] Who was she? JEAN. That you could not make me tell. JULIE. Not if I ask you as an equal, as a—friend? Who was she? JEAN. It was you! [Julie seats herself.] JULIE. How extravagant! JEAN. Yes, if you will, it was ridiculous. That was the story I hesitated to tell, but now I'm going to tell it. Do you know how people in high life look from the under world? No, of course you don't. They look like hawks and eagles whose backs one seldom sees, for they soar up above. I lived in a hovel provided by the state, with seven brothers and sisters and a pig; out on a barren stretch where nothing grew, not even a tree, but from the window I could see the Count's park walls with apple trees rising above them. That was the garden of paradise; and there stood many angry angels with flaming swords protecting it; but for all that I and other boys found the way to the tree of life—now you despise me. JULIE. Oh, all boys steal apples. JEAN. You say that, but you despise me all the same. No matter! One time I entered the garden of paradise—it was to weed the onion beds with my mother! Near the orchard stood a Turkish pavilion, shaded and overgrown with jessamine and honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for and I had never seen anything so beautiful. People passed in and out and one day—the door was left open. I sneaked in and beheld walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors and there were red-fringed curtains at the windows—now you understand what I mean—I—[Breaks off a spray of syringes and puts it to her nostrils.] I had never been in the castle and how my thoughts leaped—and there they returned ever after. Little by little the longing came over me to experience for once the pleasure of—enfin, I sneaked in and was bewildered. But then I heard someone coming—there was only one exit for the great folk, but for me there was another, and I had to choose that. [Julie who has taken the syringa lets it fall on table.] Once out I started to run, scrambled through a raspberry hedge, rushed over a strawberry bed and came to a stop on the rose terrace. For there I saw a figure in a white dress and white slippers and stockings—it was you! I hid under a heap of weeds, under, you understand, where the thistles pricked me, and lay on the damp, rank earth. I gazed at you walking among the roses. And I thought if it is true that the thief on the cross could enter heaven and dwell among the angels it was strange that a pauper child on God's earth could not go into the castle park and play with the Countess' daughter. JULIE [Pensively]. Do you believe that all poor children would have such thoughts under those conditions? JEAN [Hesitates, then in a positive voice]. That all poor children—yes, of course, of course! JULIE. It must be a terrible misfortune to be poor. JEAN [With deep pain and great chagrin]. Oh, Miss Julie, a dog may lie on the couch of a Countess, a horse may be caressed by a lady's hand, but a servant—yes, yes, sometimes there is stuff enough in a man, whatever he be, to swing himself up in the world, but how often does that happen! But to return to the story, do you know what I did? I ran down to the mill dam and threw myself in with my clothes on—and was pulled out and got a thrashing. But the following Sunday when all the family went to visit my grandmother I contrived to stay at home; I scrubbed myself well, put on my best clothes, such as they were, and went to church so that I might see you. I saw you. Then I went home with my mind made up to put an end to myself. But I wanted to do it beautifully and without pain. Then I happened to remember that elderberry blossoms are poisonous. I knew where there was a big elderberry bush in full bloom and I stripped it of its riches and made a bed of it in the oat-bin. Have you ever noticed how smooth and glossy oats are? As soft as a woman's arm.—Well, I got in and let down the cover, fell asleep, and when I awoke I was very ill, but didn't die—as you see. What I wanted—I don't know. You were unattainable, but through the vision of you I was made to realize how hopeless it was to rise above the conditions of my birth. JULIE. You tell it well! Were you ever at school? JEAN. A little, but I have read a good deal and gone to the theatres. And besides, I have always heard the talk of fine folks and from them I have learned most. JULIE. Do you listen then to what we are saying? JEAN. Yes, indeed, I do. And I have heard much when I've been on the coachbox. One time I heard Miss Julie and a lady— JULIE. Oh, what was it you heard? JEAN. Hm! that's not so easy to tell. But I was astonished and could not understand where you had heard such things. Well, perhaps at bottom there's not so much difference between people and—people. JULIE. Oh, shame! We don't behave as you do when we are engaged. JEAN. [Eyeing her]. Are you sure of that? It isn't worthwhile to play the innocent with me. JULIE. I gave my love to a rascal. JEAN. That's what they always say afterward. JULIE. Always? JEAN. Always, I believe, as I have heard the expression many times before under the same circumstances. JULIE. What circumstances? JEAN. Those we've been talking about. The last time I— — JULIE. Silence. I don't wish to hear any more. JEAN. Well, then I beg to be excused so I may go to bed. JULIE. Go to bed! On midsummer night? JEAN. Yes, for dancing out there with that pack has not amused me. JULIE. Then get the key for the boat and row me out over the lake. I want to see the sun rise. JEAN. Is that prudent? JULIE. One would think that you were afraid of your reputation. JEAN. Why not? I don't want to be made ridiculous. I am not willing to be driven out without references, now that I am going to settle down. And I feel I owe something to Kristin. JULIE. Oh, so it's Kristin now— JEAN. Yes, but you too. Take my advice, go up and go to bed. JULIE. Shall I obey you? JEAN. For once—for your own sake. I beg of you. Night is crawling along, sleepiness makes one irresponsible and the brain grows hot. Go to your room. In fact—if I hear rightly some of the people are coming for me. If they find us here—then you are lost. [Chorus is heard approaching, singing.] "There came two ladies out of the woods Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra. One of them had wet her foot, Tridiridi-ralla-la. "They talked of a hundred dollars, Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra. But neither had hardly a dollar, Tridiridi-ralla-la. "The mitten I'm going to send you, Tridirichi-ralla tridiridi-ra. For another I'm going to jilt you, Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra." JULIE. I know the people and I love them and they respect me. Let them come, you shall see. JEAN. No, Miss Julie, they don't love you. They take your food and spit upon your kindness, believe me. Listen to them, listen to what they're singing! No! Don't listen! JULIE [Listening]. What are they singing? JEAN. It's something suggestive, about you and me. JULIE. Infamous! Oh horrible! And how cowardly! JEAN. The pack is always cowardly. And in such a battle one can only run away. JULIE. Run away? Where? We can't get out and we can't go to Kristin. JEAN. Into my room then. Necessity knows no law. You can depend on me for I am your real, genuine, respectful friend. JULIE. But think if they found you there. JEAN. I will turn the key and if they try to break in I'll shoot. Come—come! JULIE. [Meaningly]. You promise me—? JEAN. I swear... [She exits R. Jean follows her.] [BALLET.—The farm folk enter in holiday dress with flowers in their hats, a fiddler in the lead. They carry a keg of home-brewed beer and a smaller keg of gin, both decorated with greens which are placed on the table. They help themselves to glasses and drink. Then they sing and dance a country dance to the melody of "There came two ladies out of the woods." When that is over they go out, singing.] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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