^Sf^ m m t>|| ^mr i

DOVER -THRIFT -EDITIONS

HiW iTitiff m
 DOVER-THRIFT-EDITIONS
All books complete and unabridged. All 5 3/ie" x 8 lA", paperbound.
Just $1.00-$2.00 in U.S.A.

POETRY
Dover Beach and Other Poems, Matthew Arnold. 112pp. 28037-3 $1.00
Bhagavadcita, Bhagavadgita. 112pp. 27782-8 $1.00
Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, William Blake. 64pp. 27051-3 $1.00
Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Poems, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 64pp.
27052-1 $1.00

My Last Duchess and Other Poems, Robert Browning. 128pp. 27783-6 $1.00
Poems and Songs, Robert Burns. 96pp. 26863-2 $1.00
Selected Poems, George Gordon, Lord Byron. 112pp. 27784-4 $1.00
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Other Poems, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 80pp.
27266-4 $1.00

Selected Poems, Emily Dickinson. 64pp. 26466-1 $1.00

Selected Poems, John Donne. 96pp. 27788-7 $1.00
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam: First and Fifth Editions, Edward FitzGerald.
64pp. 26467-X $1.00
A Boy's Will and North of Boston, Robert Frost. 112pp. (Available in U.S. only.)
26866-7 $1.00
The Road Not Taken and Other Poems, Robert Frost. 64pp. (Available in U.S. only)
27550-7 $1.00
A Shropshire Lad, A. E. Housman. 64pp. 26468-8 $1.00
Lyric Poems, John Keats. 80pp. 26871-3 $1.00
The Book of Psalms, King James Bible. 128pp. 27541-8 $1.00
Gunca Din and Other Favorite Poems, Rudyard Kipling. 80pp. 26471-8 $1.00
The Congo and Other Poems, Vachel Lindsay. 96pp. 27272-9 $1.00
Favorite Poems, Henry Wads worth Longfellow. 96pp. 27273-7 $1.00
SPOON River Antholocy, Edgar Lee Masters. 144pp. 27275-3 $1.00
Renascence and Other Poems, Edna St. Vincent Millay. 64pp. (Available in U.S.
only.) 26873-X $1.00
Selected Poems, John Milton. 128pp. 27554-X $1.00
(.hi m Sonnets, Paul Negri (ed.). 96pp. 28052-7 $1.00
Tm Raven and Other Favorite Poems, Edgar Allan Poe. 64pp. 26685-0 $1.00
Essai on Man and Other Poems, Alexander Pope. 128pp. 28053-5 $1.00

Goblin Market and Other Poems, Christina Rossetti. 64pp. 28055-1 $1.00
( iik %oo Poems, ( :.ul Sandburg. 80pp. 28057-8 $1.00
I HI Sim ><> i Dan McGrew and Other Poems, Robert Service. 96pp. 27556-6 $1.00
inc. oi

mil Songs prom the Plays, William Shakespeare. 80pp. 27801-8 $1.00
Compi i ii Sonnets, William Shakespeare. 80pp. 26686-9 $1.00
sum i
, i, Poems, Rercy Bysshe Shelley 128pp. 27558-2 $1.00
Sblb ih, Poems, Alfred Lord Tennyson. 112pp. 27282-6 $1.00
Christmas Carols Complete \ erses, Shane Weller (ed.).64pp. 27397-0$1.00
DOVER -THRIFT -EDITIONS

Miss Julie

AUGUST STRINDBERG

DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC

New York
 DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS
General Editor: Stanley Appelbaum
Editor of This Volume: Philip Smith

Performance

This Dover Thrift Edition may be used in its entirety, in adaptation or in any other way for
theatrical productions, professional and amateur, in the United States, without fee,
permission or acknowledgment. (This may not apply outside of the United States, as,

copyright conditions may vary.)

Copyright © 1992 by Dover Publications, Inc.

All rights reserved under Pan American and International
Copyright Conventions.

Published in Canada by General Publishing Company, Ltd.,

30 Lesmill Road, Don Mills, Toronto, Ontario.
Published in the United Kingdom by Constable and Company, Ltd.,
3 The Lanchesters, 162-164 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 9ER.

This Dover edition, first published in 1992,

contains an unabridged republication of Miss Julie
as originally published as "Miss Julia" in the collection
Plays by August Strindberg, Second Series,
translated with introductions by Edwin Bjorkman,
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1913.
An introductory Note has been specially prepared
for this edition.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Dover Publications, Inc.
31 East 2nd Street
Mineola, N.Y. 11501

Library of Congress Catalogmg-in-Publication Data

Strindberg, August, 1849-1912.

[Froken Julie. English]
Miss Julie / August Strindberg.
p. cm. —
(Dover thrift editions)
"An unabridged republication of Miss Julie as originally published
in the collection Plays by August Strindberg.
Second series, translated with introductions by Edwin Bjorkman,
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1913" T.p verso. —
ISBN 0-486-27281-8
I. Title. II. Series.
PT9812.F81E5 1992
839.72'6— dc20 92-15845
CIP
 Note

The principal genius of Swedish literature and a pivotal figure in the

development of modern drama, August Strindberg (1849-1912) was at

the center of the literary controversies that transformed the European

stage during the late nineteenth century. During his forty-year career,
which helped to establish radical dramatic idioms as diverse as Natural-
ism and Expressionism, Strindberg gained notoriety both as an insightful
portrayer of character and as an unrelenting opponent of the social and
theatrical mores and restrictions of his day.
Miss ]ulie (Froken Julie), the most acclaimed work of Strindbergs
Naturalistic period, initially appeared as a printed text in 1888, a year
before its first staging. Its nontheatrical debut underscored the play's
status as an experimental work — an impression encouraged by the inclu-
sion of a lengthy preface in which the author discussed, with characteris-
tic bluntness, the rationale behind the work's formal innovations and their
relation to contemporary artistic norms. In the years since its first pub-
lication Miss Julie has achieved renown as an unmatched masterpiece of
dramatic verisimilitude, and its preface has been hailed as a landmark of
literary ideology.
 Contents

Authors Preface ix

Dramatis Personae xxi

Miss Julie 1

Vll
 Author's Preface

Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me a sort
oiBiblia Pauperum, or a Bible in pictures for those who cannot read what
is written or printed. And in the same way the playwright has seemed to
me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts of his time in a form so popular
that the middle classes, from which theatrical audiences are mainly
drawn, can know what is being talked about without troubling their
brains too much. For this reason the theatre has always served as a
grammar-school to young people, women, and those who have acquired
a little knowledge, all of whom retain the capacity for deceiving them-
selves and being deceived — which means again that they are susceptible
to illusions produced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same
reason I have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary,
incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be
developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre might
stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for the
enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. The prolonged
theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaks in favour of
such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the civilised countries

producing the greatest thinkers of the age, namely, England and Ger-
many, the drama is as dead as are most of the other fine arts.
some other countries it
In has, however, been thought possible to

create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a new
time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the new thoughts to

become so popularised that the public might grasp the questions raised;
secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party conflicts that pure and
disinterested enjoyment has been excluded from places where one's
innermost feelings are violated and the tyranny of an applauding or
hissing majority is exercised with the openness for which the theatre gives
a chance; and, finally, there has been no new form devised for the new
contents, and the new wine has burst the old bottles.
In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new — for that

cannot be done — but I have tried to modernise the form in accordance

with the demands which I thought the new men of a new time might be

ix
 Authors Preface

likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose in view, I have
chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that might well be said to lie

outside the partisan strife of the day: for the problem of social ascendancy
or decline, of higher or lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is,

has been, and will be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real

life, as it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident

impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because it can
only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual perish, and this
must be the case in still higher degree when we see an entire family die
out. But perhaps a time will arrive when we have become so developed,
so enlightened, that we can remain indifferent before the spectacle of
life,which now seems so brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have
closed up those lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call
feelings, and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harm-
ful by the final growth of our reflective organs.

The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our weak-
ness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the same fate could
befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that a very sensitive spectator might
fail to find satisfaction in this kind of pity, while the man believing in the
future might demand some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil,
or, in some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is no
other words,
absolute That one family perishes is the fortune of another family,
evil.

which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation of ascent and
descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as fortune is solely deter-
mined by comparison. And to the man with a programme, who wants to
remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk eats the dove, and the flea eats
the hawk, I have this question to put: why should it be remedied? Life is

not so mathematically idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it

happens just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness at
least.

That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault.

When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, then
we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression from
seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated trees that
have stood too long in the way of others with equal right to a period of free
growth — an impression good in the same way as that received from the
death of one incurably diseased.
Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too
sad —
just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring

arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are giving
 Authors Preface xi

orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being silly and picturing
all human beings as so many sufferers from St. Vitus' dance or idiocy. I

find the joy of life in its violent and cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in
knowing something and learning something. And for this reason I have
selected an unusual but instructive case an exception, in a word but — —
a great exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all

lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains is

that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that the view-
point is not always the same. An event in real life — and this discovery is

quite recent — springs generally from a whole series of more or less deep-
lying motives, but of these the spectator chooses as a rule the one his
reason can master most easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably
on his power of reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the
merchant. Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man.
Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the motive
lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that the one who is dead
may have hid the main motive by pushing forward another meant to
place his memory in a better light.
In explanation of Miss Julie's sad fate I have suggested many factors:

her mothers fundamental instincts; her fathers mistaken upbringing of

the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence of her fiance on a
weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more directly: the festive

mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of her father; her physical
condition; her preoccupation with the animals; the excitation of the
dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly aphrodisiacal influence of the
flowers; and lastly the chance forcing the two of them together in a

secluded room, to which must be added the aggressiveness of the

excited man.
Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly
psychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moral
preachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthy be-
cause it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And if others have
done the same thing before me, I may boast of not being the sole inventor
of my paradoxes — as all discoveries are named.
In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to make
my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for reasons I shall

now state.

In the course of the ages the word character has assumed

many meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-
note in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with
 —
xii Authors Preface

temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an autom-

an individual whose nature had come to a stand-still, or who
aton, so that
had adapted himself to a certain part in life —
who had ceased to grow, in
a word —
was named a character; while one remaining in a state of
development — a skilful navigator on life's river, who did not sail with
close-tied sheets, but knew when to fall off before the wind and when to
luff again — was called lacking in character. And he was called so in a
depreciatory sense, of course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify,

and to keep track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of
the soul was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element
has always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a
gentleman fixed and finished once for all — one who invariably appeared
drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisation nothing more
was needed than some physical deformity like a club-foot, a wooden leg,

a red nose; or the person concerned was made to repeat some phrase like

"That's capital!" or "Barkis is willin'," or something of that kind. This

manner of regarding human beings as homogeneous is preserved even by
Harpagon is nothing but miserly, although Harpagon
the great Moliere.
might as well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine
father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his "defect" is of
distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, who are his heirs, and
for that reason should not find fault with him, even if they have to wait a
little for their wedding. I do not believe, therefore, in simple characters
on the stage. And the summary judgments of the author upon men this —
one stupid, and that one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy
should be challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the
soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much
resembling virtue.
Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition
more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, I have
made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the old and the
new. And I do not think it unlikely that, through newspaper reading and
overheard conversations, modern ideas may have leaked down to the
strata where domestic servants belong.
My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and
present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces of
Sunday clothing turned into rags — all patched together as is the human
soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of evolutionary history
by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from the stronger, and by letting
different souls accept "ideas" — or suggestions, as they are called — from
each other.
 Authors Preface xiii

Miss Julie is a modern character, not because the man-hating half-

woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after her
and begun to make a noise. The
discovery, she has stepped to the front
half-woman is a type coming more and more into prominence, selling
herself nowadays for power, decorations, distinctions, diplomas, as for-
merly for money, and the type indicates degeneration. It is not a good
type, for it does not last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproduc-
ing itself and its misery through one more generation. And degenerate
men seem instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women,
so that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is a
torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either from discord
with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of their suppressed instincts,
or from foiled hopes of possessing the man. The type is tragical, offering
us the spectacle of a desperate struggle against nature. It is also tragical as
a Romantic inheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which
wants nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races
are required.
But Miss Julie is also a remnant of the old military nobility which is
now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. She is a victim of
the discord which a mothers "crime" produces in a family, and also a
victim of the days delusions, of the circumstances, of her defective
constitution — all of which may be held equivalent to the old-fashioned
law The naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he
fate or universal

cannot wipe out the results of an action —

punishment, prison, or fear
and for the simple reason that mey remain without regard to his verdict.
For fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as
those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be without
cost to themselves.
Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the father
should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take vengeance upon
herself, just as she does in the play, and she would be moved to it by that
innate or acquired sense of honour which the upper classes inherit
whence? From the days of barbarism, from the original home of the
Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages? It is beautiful, but it has
become disadvantageous to the preservation of the race. It is this, the

nobleman's harakiri — or the law of the inner conscience compelling the

Japanese to cut open his own abdomen at the insult of another — which
survives, though somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the
nobility. For this reason the valet, Jean, continues to live, but Miss Julie
cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks this life-endangering

superstition about honour, the serf takes precedence of the earl, and in all
xiv Authors Preface

of us Aryans there is something of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote,

which makes us sympathise with the man who takes his own life because
he has committed a dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we
are noblemen to the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with
the living corpse of one who was once great — yes, even if the one thus
fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds.
Jean, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock — one in whom the
differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotters child, and he has
trained himself up to the point where the future gentleman has become
visible. He has found it easy to learn, having finely developed senses
(smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for beauty besides. He has already
risen in the world, and is strong enough not to be sensitive about using
other peoples services. He has already become a stranger to his equals,
despising them as so many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing
them because they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise

with envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From this relation-

ship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating between love

of distinction and hatred of those who have already achieved it. He says
himself that he is an aristocrat, and has learned the secrets of good
company. He is polished on the outside and coarse within. He knows
already how to wear the frock-coat with ease, but the cleanliness of his
body cannot be guaranteed.
He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of Christine, who
has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotional callousness is

sufficient to prevent the nights happenings from exercising a disturbing

influence on his plans for the future. Having at once the slaves brutality
and the masters lack of squeamishness, he can see blood without faint-
ing, and he can also bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it

off. For this reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will

probably end his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become
a Roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may
even become a county attorney.
Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as to the
way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath — that is, when
he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he prefers what seems favour-
able to himself to what is true. When Miss Julie suggests that the lower
classes must feel the pressure from above very heavily, Jean agrees with
her, of course, because he wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects
himself at once, the moment he realises the advantage of standing apart
from the herd.

.
 Authors Preface xv

And Jean stands above Miss Julie not only because his fate is in
ascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocrat because
of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and his capacity
for taking the initiative. His inferiority depends mainly on the temporary
social environment in which he has to live, and which he probably can
shed together with the valets livery.

The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count (as

shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious supersti-
tion. But he reveres the count principally as a possessor of that higher
position toward which he himself is striving. And this reverence remains
even when he has won the daughter of the house, and seen that the
beautiful shell covered nothing but emptiness.
I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can spring up
between two souls of such different quality. And for this reason I let Miss
Julie imagine her love to be protective or commiserative in its origin. And
I let Jean suppose that, under different social conditions, he might feel
something like real love for her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth,
which has to strike roots in darkness before it can bring forth a vigorous
flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom and seed
at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon.
Christine, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and sluggishness
acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed full of morality and
religion that are meant to serve her at once as cloak and scapegoat. Her
church-going has for its purpose to bring her quick and easy riddance of
all responsibility for her domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new
stock of guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and there-
fore purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the
doctor in "The Father," whom I designed as ordinary human beings,
like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. And if

these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some peo-

ple, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain extent
impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This means that they are
without individuality, showing only one side of themselves while at

work. And as long as the spectator does not feel the need of seeing them
from other sides, my abstract presentation of them remains on the
whole correct.
In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departed
somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into

catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty answers.
I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical construction of the
xvi Authors Preface

French dialogue, and have instead permitted the minds to work irregu-
do in reality, where, during conversation, the cogs of one
larly as they

mind seem more or less haphazardly to engage those of another one, and
where no topic is fully exhausted. Naturally enough, therefore, the
dialogue strays a good deal as, in the opening scenes, it acquires a
material that later on is worked over, picked up again, repeated, ex-
pounded, and built up like the theme in a musical composition.

The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned only

with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, introducing
only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the unfortunate spirit

of the father hovering above and beyond the action. I have done this

because I believe I have noticed that the psychological processes are what
interest the people of our own day more than anything else. Our souls, so
eager for knowledge, cannot rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but
must also learn how comes to happen! What we want to see are just the
it

wires, the machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false
bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into
the cards to discover how they are marked.
In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of the brothers
de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other modern
literature.

Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried to

abolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I have come to
fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be unfavourably
affected by intermissions during which the spectator would have time to
reflect and to get away from the suggestive influence of the author-
hypnotist. My play will probably last an hour and a half, and as it is

possible to listen that length of time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or

a debate, I have imagined that a theatrical performance could not
become fatiguing in the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first

dramatic experiments, "The Outlaw," I tried the same concentrated

form, but with scant success. The play was written in five acts and wholly
completed when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect it pro-
duced. Then I burned and out of the ashes rose a
it, single, well-built act,
covering fifty printed pages, and taking an hour for its performance.
Thus the form of the present play is not new, but it seems to be my own,
and changing aesthetical conventions may possibly make it timely.
My hope
is still for a public educated to the point where it can sit

through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But that point

cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. In the mean-

_.
 Authors Preface xvii

time I have resorted to three art forms that are to provide resting-places
for the public and the actors, without letting the public escape from the
illusion induced. All these forms are subsidiary to the drama. They are
the monologue, the pantomime, and the dance, all of them belonging
originally to the tragedy of classical antiquity. For the monologue has
sprung from the monody, and the chorus has developed into the ballet.

Our realists have excommunicated themonologue as improbable, but

if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seem probable, and
then I can use good advantage. It is probable, for instance, that a
it to
speaker may walk back and forth in his room practising his speech aloud;
it is probable that an actor may read through his part aloud, that a

servant-girl may talk to her cat, that a mother may prattle to her child,
that an old spinster may chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his
sleep. And in order that the actor for once may have a chance to work

independently, and to be free for a moment from the authors pointer, it is

better that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As it
matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, or in one's
sleep — because it cannot influence the action — it is possible that a gifted
actor, carried away by the situation and the mood of the occasion, may
improvise such matters better than they could be written by the author,
who cannot figure out in advance how much may be said, and how long
the talk may last, without waking the public out of their illusions.
It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre has returned

to improvisationand thereby produced creative actors who, however, —

—
must follow the authors suggestions and this may be counted a step
forward, or even the beginning of a new art form that might well be
called productive.
Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I have
used the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope for the actors
— and
imagination gain independent honours. But
for his desire to in

may not be
order that the public beyond endurance, have permit-
tried I

ted themusic — which amply warranted by is Midsummer the Eve's

dance — to exercise power while

its dumb show
illusory And the lasts. I

ask the musical director to make careful selection of the music used for
this purpose, so that incompatible moods are not induced by reminis-
cences from the last musical comedy or topical song, or by folk-tunes of
too markedly ethnographical distinction.
The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not have
taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted and tempt a
number of grinning idiots into displaying their own smartness, whereby
xviii Authors Preface

the illusion is disturbed. As the common people do not improvise their

gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which stick some double meaning,
I have not composed their lampooning song, but have appropriated a
little known folk-dance which I personally noted down in a district near

Stockholm. The words don't quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it,

and this is cunning (i.e., weakness) of the slave keeps

intentional, for the
him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chattering clowns in
a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation that puts the lid on

the coffin of a whole family.

As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed from impression-
istic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, and have thereby in

my opinion strengthened the illusion. Because the whole room and all its

contents are not shown, there is a chance to guess at things that is, our —
imagination is complementing our vision. I have made a
stirred into

further gain in getting rid of those tiresome exits by means of doors,

especially as stage doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at
the lightest touch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of
an irate pater familias who, on leaving his home after a poor dinner,
slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole house." (On the
stage the house sways.) I have also contented myself with a single setting,

and for the double purpose of making the figures become parts of their
surroundings, and of breaking with the tendency toward luxurious scen-
ery. But having only a single setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet
nothing is more difficult than to get a room that looks something like a

room, although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and
flaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might be done
with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the canvas. We have
so much else on the stage that is conventional, and in which we are asked
to believe, that we might at least be spared the too great effort of believing
in painted pans and kettles.

I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the stage in
order to make the actors show full face and half profile to the audience
when they sit opposite each other at the table. In the opera "Ai'da" I

noticed an oblique background, which led the eye out into unseen
prospects. And it did not appear to be the result of any reaction against the
fatiguing right angle.
Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights.
The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the faces of
the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why must all actors be fat

in the face? Does not this light from below tend to wipe out the subtler

j
 Authors Preface xix

lineaments in the lower part of the face, and especially around the jaws?
Does it not give a false appearance to the nose and cast shadows upward
over the eyes? If this be not so, another thing is certain: namely, that the
eyes of the actors suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their
glances is precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina in
places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the sun
reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes hardly anything
but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways or upwards, toward the
galleries, so that nothing but the white of the eye shows. Perhaps the same
cause may account for the tedious blinking of which especially the
actresses are guilty. And when anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes
to speak with, no other way is left him but the poor one of staring straight
at the public, with whom he or she then gets into direct communication
outside of the frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has,
rightly or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." Would it not be
possible by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of
reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed by the
actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthened by use of the
greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the eyes?
Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play for the
public and not at it, although such a change would be highly desirable. I

dare not even dream of beholding the actors back throughout an impor-
tant scene, but I wish with all my heart that crucial scenes might not be
played in the centre of the proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth
applause. Instead, I should like to have them laid in the place indicated

by the situation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor
modifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourth wall
missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the audience,
would probably produce a disturbing effect at present.
In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that the
me, as they would rather look beautiful than lifelike.
ladies will listen to
But the actor might consider whether it be to his advantage to paint his
face so that it shows some abstract type which covers it like a mask.
Suppose that a man puts a markedly choleric line between the eyes, and
imagine further that some remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a
stateof continuous wrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result?
And how can the wrathful old man produce a frown on his false fore-

head, which is smooth as a billiard ball?

In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the

soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and noise, it
xx Authors Preface

would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light on a small

stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a minimum of make-up.
If, in addition, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its disturb-

ing lamps and its faces turned tov/ard the public; if we could have the
seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) raised so that the eyes of
the spectators would be above the knees of the actors; if we could get rid of
the boxes with their tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the
auditorium completely darkened during the performance; and if, first

and last, we could have a small stage new

and a small house: then a
dramatic art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an
institution for the entertainment of people with culture. While waiting
for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to write for the "ice-box,"

and thus prepare the repertory that is to come.

I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty of time to
try over again.

.
 Dramatis Personam

Miss Julie, aged twenty-five

Jean, a valet, aged thirty

Christine, a cook, aged thirty-five

The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the

kitchen of the Counts country house.

xxi
 Miss Julie
A Naturalistic Tragedy

1888
 Miss Julie

SCENE

A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by draperies and
hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across the stage, from the left side
and away from the spectators. On this wall, to the left, there are two
shelves full of utensils made of copper, iron, and tin. The shelves are
trimmed with scalloped paper.
A little to the right may be seen three-fourths of the big arched doorway
leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, through which are seen a
fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and the tops of some
Lombardy poplars.
On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook-stove built of
glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above it.

From the right protrudes one end of the servants dining-table of white
pine, with a few chairs about it.

The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs of juniper are
scattered on the floor.

On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilac blossoms.
An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.
Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, and the
mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the door.

Christine is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. She has on

a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up with a big
kitchen apron.
Jean enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred riding-
boots, which he places on the floor in such a manner that they remain

visible to the spectators.

1
 —
August Strindberg

Jean. To-night Miss Julie is crazy again; absolutely crazy.

Christine. So you're back again?
Jean. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by the barn,
I went and had a dance, and there I saw the young lady leading the
in
dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight of me, she rushed
right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' waltz with her. And ever
since she's been waltzing like — well, I never saw the like of it. She's crazy!
Christine. And has always been, but never the way it's been this last

fortnight, since her engagement was broken.

Jean. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a fine fellow,
isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so full of notions. [Sits
down at the end of the table] It's peculiar anyhow, that a young lady
—
hm! would rather stay at home with the servants — don't you think?
than go with her father to their relatives!

Christine. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus

with her fellow
Jean. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man just the

same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, although I

didn't care to let on.

Christine. No, did you?
Jean. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, and the
young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know what that
meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach a dog
to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The third time he
took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand bits. And then
he got out.
Christine. So that's the way it happened! You don't say!

Jean. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, what have
you got that's tasty?

Christine. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh,
just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast.

Jean. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great delice. [Feeling the
plate] But you might have warmed the plate.
Christine. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the count himself!
[Pulls his hair playfully.
Jean. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am.
Christine. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know.

Jean eats.
Christine opens a bottle of beer.

.
 Miss Julie 3

Jean. Beer —
on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have
something better myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of
claret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass and you —
use those with stems when you drink it pure.
Christine. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire]

Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky!
Jean. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. And
I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. [Tasting the wine]
Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [He warms the glass with his
hands] We got this at Dijon. It cost us four francs per litre, not counting
the bottle. And there was the duty besides. What is it you're cooking
with that infernal smell?
Christine. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give
Diana.
Jean. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. But
why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? Is she sick?
Christine. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with the
gate-keeper's pug — and now there's trouble —
and the young lady just
won't hear of it.

Jean. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud
enough in others — just as was the countess while shelived. She was most

at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never drive
with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, but she had to
have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. And speaking of the young
lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself and her person. I might even
say that she's lacking in refinement. Just now, when she was dancing in the
barn, she pulled the gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself
tocome and dance with her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just
how it is: when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they
—
grow mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders!
—
And and so on!
Christine. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking,
who tends to her dressing.
Jean. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who have
been out riding with her —
And then the way she dances!
Christine. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done?
Jean. Of course I will.

Christine. Do you promise?

Jean. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks for the
good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle.
 August Strindberg

Julie. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the outside]

I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime.

Jean slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises respectfully.

Julie. [Enters and goes over to Christine by the wash-stand] Well, is

it done yet?

Christine signs to her that Jean is present.

Jean. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe.

Julie. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's for you,

Mr. Pry!
Jean. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has!

Julie. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something about

perfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance — Now don't peep!
Go away!
Jean. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth the
ladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve — something to tell fortunes by
and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen?
Julie. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, indeed! [To
Christine] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. Come and dance a
schottische with me now, Jean.
Jean. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I had promised to

dance with Christine this time

Julie. Well, she can get somebody else — can't you, Christine? Won't
you let me borrow Jean from you?
Christine. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julie is so gracious, it

isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and be thankful for the honour,
too!

Jean. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, I cannot
help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julie to dance twice in succession with
the same partner, especially as the people here are not slow in throwing
out hints
Julie. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do you
mean?
Jean. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have to speak
more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to all the rest who are
expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way
Julie. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of the house,
deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so happens
that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one who knows how to
lead, so that I am not made ridiculous.
Jean. As you command, Miss Julie! I am at your service!

.
 Miss Julie

Julie. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we should

enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be forgotten.
Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'll return your beau
to you!

Jean offers his arm to Miss Julie and leads her out.

PANTOMIME

Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. When
necessary she turns her back to the public. She should not look in the
direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry as if fearful that
they might become impatient.
Christine is alone. A schottische tune played on a violin is heard faintly
in the distance.
While humming the tune, Christine clears off the table after Jean,
washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away in a
cupboard.
Then she takes off her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of the
table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; lights a
tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl her front
hair.

Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns to the table.
Discovers the handkerchief which Miss Julie has left behind, picks it

up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly and begins to

stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth.

Jean. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances! And
the people stand behind the doors and grin at her. What do you think of
it, Christine?
Christine. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a little

queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now?
Jean. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you?
Christine. No! — Not for a little thing like that, you know! And also, I

know my place
Jean. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a sensible girl,

Christine, and I think you'llmake a good wife

Julie. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced gayety]
Yes, you are a fine partner — running away from your lady!
 August Strindberg

Jean. On the contrary, Miss Julie. I have, as you see, looked up the
one I deserted.
Julie. [Changing tone] Do
you know, there is nobody that dances like
you! — But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? Take it
off at once!
Jean. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black
coat is hanging right here.
[Points toward the right and goes in that direction.

Julie. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Why

don't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you can stay
right here, and I'll turn my back on you.
Jean. With your permission, Miss Julie.

Goes further over to the right; one of his arms can be seen as he
changes his coat.

Julie. [To Christine] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's so familiar

with you?
Christine. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that.

Julie. Call it?

Christine. Well, Miss Julie, you have had a fellow of your own,
and
Julie. We were really engaged
Christine. But it didn't come to anything just the same

Jean enters, dressed in black frock-coat and black derby.

Julie. Tresgentil, Monsieur Jean! Tres gentill

Jean. Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!
[Link] vous voulez parler francais! Where did you learn it?
Jean. In Switzerland, while I worked as sommelier in one of the big
hotels at Lucerne.
Julie. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock-coat! Charming!
[Sits down at the table.
Jean. Oh, you flatter me.
Julie. [Offended] Flatter — you!
Jean. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you could
be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dare to assume
that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering.

Julie. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You must have
been to the theatre a great deal?

Jean. That, too. I have been to a lot of places.

 Miss Julie

Julie. But you were born in this neighbourhood?

Jean. My father was a cotter on the county attorneys property right by
here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, although you, of course,
didn't notice me.
Julie. No, really!
Jean. Yes, and I remember one time in particular — but of that I can't
speak.
Julie. Oh, yes, do! Why — just for once.
Jean. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps.
Julie. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that?

Jean. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one!

Points to Christine, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.

Julie. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too.
Jean. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep.
Julie. [Cynically] How do you know?
Jean. [Insolently] I have heard it.

Pause during which they study each other.

Julie. Why don't you sit down?

Jean. It wouldn't be proper in your presence.
Julie. But if I order you to do it?

Jean. Then I obey.

Julie. Sit down, then! — But wait a moment! Can you give me some-
thing to drink first?

Jean. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it is nothing
but beer.
Julie. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that I prefer it

to wine.

Jean. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a glass
and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me!
Julie. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself?
Jean. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of
course
Julie. Command? — I should think a polite gentleman might keep his
lady company.
Jean. Yes, that's the way it should be.
[Opens another bottle and takes out a glass.

Julie. Drink my health now!

Iean hesitates.
8 August Strindberg

Julie. Are you bashful —

a big, grown-up man?

Jean. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To the health of
my liege lady!

Julie. Bravo! — And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get it

just right.

Jean hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and

touches it lightly with his lips.

Julie. Excellent! You should have been on the stage.

Jean. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julie. Some-
body might see us.

Julie. What would that matter?

Jean. Oh, it would set the people talking — that's all! And if you only
knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago
Julie. What did they have to say? Tell me — Sit down now!
Jean. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were using
expressions —
which cast reflections of a kind that oh, you know it —
yourself!You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a man,
drinking —
no matter if he's only a servant and at night then — —
Julie. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christine with us?
Jean. Yes — asleep!
Julie. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep?
Christine. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub!
Julie. Christine! — Did you suchever see a sleeper.
Christine. [In her sleep] The boots
count's are polished — put on the
coffee — yes, yes, yes — my-my — pooh!
Julie. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up?
Jean. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep.
Julie. [Sharply] What's that?
Jean. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be tired at
night. And sleep should be respected.
Julie. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it does you
honour — I thank you for it. [Gives Jean her hand] Come now and pick
some lilacs for me.

During the following scene Christine wakes up. She moves as if

still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.

Jean. With you, Miss Julie?

Julie. With me!
Jean. But it won't do! Absolutely not!
 Miss Julie

Julie. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn't
possibly imagine
Jean. No, not I, but the people.
Julie. What? That I am fond of the valet?
Jean. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened — and
to the people nothing is sacred.

Julie. You are an aristocrat, I think.

Jean. Yes, I am.
Julie. And I am stepping down
Jean. Take my advice, Miss Julie, don't step down. Nobody will
believe you did it on purpose. The people will always say that you fell

down.
Julie. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if I am
not right. Come along! [She ogles him.
Jean. You're mighty queer, do you know!
Julie. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is

queer. Life, —
men, everything just a mush that floats on top of the water
until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to me ever so
often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed to the top of a
column and sit there without being able to tell how to get down again. I
get dizzy when I look down, and I must get down, but I haven't the
courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and I am longing to fall, and yet I

don'tfall. But there will be no rest for me until I get down, no rest until I

getdown, down on the ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should
want to get still further down, into the ground itself Have you ever felt —
like that?

Jean. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark wood.
I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over the smiling
landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can rob the nest in
which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, but the trunk is so
thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first branch. But I know that if I
could only reach that first branch, then I should go right on to the top as
on a ladder. I have not reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my
dreams.
Julie. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Only
into the park!

She offers her arm to him, and they go toward the door.

Jean. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss

Julie — then our dreams will come true.
10 August Strindberg

They turn around in the doorway, and Jean puts one hand up to
his eyes.

Julie. Let me
what you have got in your eye.
see
Jean. Oh, nothingjust some dirt —
it will soon be gone. —
Julie. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let me help
you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold of his head
and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with a corner of her
handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still! [Slaps him on the hand] Well,
can't you do as I say? I think you are shaking — a big, strong fellow like
you! [Feels his biceps] And with such arms!
Jean. [Ominously] Miss Julie!

Julie. Yes, Monsieur Jean.

Jean. Attention! }e ne suis quun homme.
you sit still!
Julie. Can't — There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my hand
now, and thank me.
Jean. [Rising] Miss Julie, listen to me. Christine has gone to bed
now — Won't you listen to me?
Julie. Kiss my hand first.

Jean. Listen to me!

Julie. Kiss my hand first!

Jean. All right, but blame nobody but yourself!

Julie. For what?
Jean. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don't you
know that it is dangerous to play with fire?

JULIE. Not for me. I am insured.

Jean. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there are
inflammable surroundings to be counted with.
Julie. That's you, I suppose?
Jean. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man

[Link] handsome appearance what an incredible conceit! A Don —

Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph!
Jean. Do you?
Julie. I fear it almost.

Jean goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order
to kiss her.

Julie. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame!

Jean. Was that in play or in earnest?
Julie. In earnest.
Jean. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing is too
 Miss Julie 1

serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now am tired of
I

playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume my work. The count

wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is after midnight already.
Julie. Put away the boots.
Jean. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have not
undertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become I —
hold myself too good for it.

Julie. You're proud!

Jean. In some ways, and not in others.
Julie. Have you ever been in love?

Jean. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot of girls, and
once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one I wanted: sick, you
know, like those princes in the Arabian Nights who cannot eat or drink
for sheer love.

Julie. Who was it?

Jean remains silent.

Julie. Who was it?

Jean. You cannot make me tell you.

Julie. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as — a friend: who was it?

Jean. It was you.

Julie. [Sits down] How funny!
Jean. Yes, as you say —
was ludicrous. That was the story, you see,
it

which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I am going to tell it.
Do you know how the world looks from below no, you don't. No more —
than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see the back because they
are always floating about high up in the sky. I lived in the cotter's hovel,
together with seven other children, and a pig out there on the grey —
plain, where there isn't a single tree. But from our windows I could see
the wall around the count's park, and apple-trees above it. That was the
Garden of Eden, and many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming
swords. Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree of
Life— now you despise me?
Julie. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do.
Jean. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. How-
ever— once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed
the onion beds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and
covered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but I had
never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and came out
again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up and saw the
 2 — — —

1 August Strindberg

walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the windows were
hung with red, fringed curtains — now you know what I mean. I
[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under Miss Julie's nose]
I had —
never been inside the manor, and Ihad never seen anything but the
church — and this was much finer. No matter where my thoughts ran,
they returned always — to that place. And gradually a longing arose
within me to taste the full pleasure of enfinl I sneaked in, looked and
admired. Then I heard somebody coming. There was only one way out
for fine people, but for me there was another, and I could do nothing else
but choose it.

Julie, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.

Jean. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry

bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out on the
terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pink dress and pair
of white stockings — that was you! I crawled under a pile of weeds — right
into it, you know — into stinging thistles and wet, ill-smelling dirt. And I

saw you walking among the roses, and I thought: if it be possible for a

robber to get into heaven and dwell with the angels, then it is strange that
a cotters child, here on Gods own earth, cannot get into the park and
play with the counts daughter.
Julie. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the same
thoughts as you had in this case?
Jean. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] Hall poor — — ofyes
course. Of course!
Julie. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor.
Jean. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated emphasis]
Oh, Miss Julie! Oh! — A dog may lie on her ladyships sofa; a horse may
have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, but a servant [changing
— oh
his tone] and you meet one made of
well, here there different stuff,
and he makes a way himself but how
for in the world, often does it

happen? — However, do you know what jumped I did? I into the mill
brook with my clothes on, and was pulled out, and got a licking. But the
next Sunday, when my father and the rest of the people were going over to
my grandmother's, I fixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I
washed myself with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and
went to church, where I could see you. I did see you, and went home
determined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, without
any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous to sleep under an
elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. I robbed it of all its
 Miss Julie 13

flowers, and then I put them in the big box where the oats were kept and

lay down in them. Did you ever notice the smoothness of oats? Soft to the
touch as the skin of the human body! However, I pulled down the lid and
closed my eyes — fell asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't
die, as you can see. What more than I can tell. Of
I wanted — that's

course, there was not the least hope of winning you but you symbolised —
the hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was born.
Julie. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go to school?
Jean. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the theatre a
good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk of better-class people,
and from that I have learned most of all.
Julie. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying?
Jean. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box of

the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julie, and one of
your girl friends

Julie. Oh! — What was it you heard then?

Jean. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rather surprised,
and I couldn't understand where you had learned all those words. Per-
haps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much difference as they think
between one kind of people and another.
Julie. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you do
when we are engaged.
Jean. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain? — Well, Miss Julie, it won't
pay tomake yourself out so very innocent to me
Julie. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel.
Jean. That's what you always say — afterwards.
Julie. Always?
Jean. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used several
times before, on similar occasions.
Julie. What occasions?
Jean. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time
Julie. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more!
Jean. Nor did she — curiously enough! Well, then I ask permission to
go to bed.
Julie. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve?
Jean. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no attraction
for me.
Julie. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake — I want to

watch the sunrise.

Jean. Would that be wise?
 .

14 August Strindberg

Julie. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation.

Jean. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't care to

be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to get on in the

world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligation to Christine.

Julie. So it's Christine now

Jean. Yes, but it's you also — Take my advice and go to bed!

Julie. Am I to obey you?

Jean. For once — and for your own sake! The night is far gone.
Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! And
besides — I am not mistaken
if —
I can hear the crowd coming this way to

look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost!

CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]:

Through the fields come two ladies a-walking,
Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah.
And one has her shoes full of water,
Treederee-derallah-lah

They're talking of hundreds of dollars,

Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah.
But have not between them a dollar,
Treederee-derallah-lah.

This wreath I give you gladly,

Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah.
But love another madly,
Treederee-derallah-lah

Julie. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. Let
them come, and you'll see.
Jean. No, Miss Julie, they don't love you. They take your food and spit
at your back. Believe me. Listen to me — can't you hear what they are
singing? — No, don't pay any attention to it!

Julie. [Listening] What is it they are singing?

Jean. Oh, something About you and me.
scurrilous.
Julie. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery
of it!

Jean. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this there is

nothing to do but to run away.

Julie. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go
into Christine's room.
Jean. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows no
law. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank and respectful
friend.
 Miss Julie 1

JULIE. But think only — think if they should look for you in there!
Jean. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it open, I'll shoot!-
Come! [Kneeling before her] Come!
Julie. [Meaningly] And you promise me ?

Jean. I swear!

Miss Julie goes quickly out to the right.

Jean follows her eagerly.

BALLET

The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carry flowers in
their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table they place a barrel of
small-beer and a keg ofbrannvin," or white Swedish whiskey, both

of them decorated with wreathes woven out of leaves. First they

drink. Then they form a ring and sing and dance to the melody heard
before:

"Through the fields come two ladies a-walking.

The dance finished, they leave singing.

Julie. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she claps
her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff and begins to powder
her face.
Jean. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And you heard,
didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here?
Julie. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do?
Jean. Run away, travel, far away from here.
Julie. Travel? Yes — but where?
Jean. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes — you have never been there?
Julie. No. Is the country beautiful?
Jean. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh!
Julie. But then — what are we to do down there?
Jean. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the customers.
Julie. Hotel?
Jean. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and new lan-
guages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No trouble about
what to do — for the work is calling to be done: night and day, bells that
 6 —

1 August Strindberg

ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and go; and gold pieces raining
on the counter all the time. That's the life for you!
Julie. Yes, that is life. And I?

Jean. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house.

With your looks —and your manners — oh, success will be assured!
Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves going
by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass in review before
your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on your table. You cannot
imagine how people tremble when a bill is presented to them — I'll salt

the items, and you'll sugar them with your sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get
away from here [pulling a time-table from his pocket] — at once, with
the next train! We'll be in Malmo at 6. 30; in Hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow
morning; in Frankfort and Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of
the St. Gotthard it will take us let me see —
three days. Three days! —
Julie. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage Jean. —
Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms.

Jean. [Reluctantly] I should like to — but I don't dare. Not in this house
again. I love you — beyond doubt— or, can you doubt it, Miss Julie?

Julie. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? —Call me

Julie. Between us there can be no barriers hereafter. Call me Julie!

Jean. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us as long

as we stay in this house —
there is the past, and there is the count and I —
have never met another person for whom I felt such respect. If I only
catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feel small. If I only hear that bell
up there, I jump like a shy horse. And even now, when I see his boots
standing there so stiff and perky, it is as if something made my back
bend. [Kicking at the boots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition
hammered into us from childhood — but it can be as easily forgotten
again. Let us only get to another country, where they have a republic,
and you'll see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter.
You see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to that kind
of thing. There's better stuff in — —
me character and if I only get hold
of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. To-day I am a
valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In ten years I can live on the
money I have made, and then I'll go to Roumania and get myself an
order. And I may — note well that I say may — end my days as a count.
Julie. Splendid, splendid!
Jean. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and so
you'll be a countess after all. My countess!
Julie. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me that you
love me: otherwise — yes, what am I otherwise?
 Miss Julie 17

Jean. I will tell you so a thousand times later. But not here. And—
above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We must look at
the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes out a cigar, cuts off
the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, and I'll sit here, and then
we'll talk as if nothing had happened.
Julie. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all?

Jean. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know how to
control myself.
Julie. A while ago you kissed my shoe — and now!
Jean. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things to
think of.

Julie. Don't speak harshly to me!

Jean. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed — don't let us
commit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before he
comes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans for the
future? Do you approve of them?
Julie. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is one ques-
tion: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital — have you
got it?

Jean. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! have my expert knowledge, I

my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That's the very

best kind of capital, I should say.

Julie. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even.

Jean. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for a
backer to advance the needful cash.
Julie. Where could you get one all of a sudden?
Jean. It's you to find him if you want to become
for my partner.

Julie. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.

Jean. Well, then that's off

Julie. And
Jean. Everything remains as before.
Julie. Do you think am going to stay under this roof as your
I

concubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers at me? Do
you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, take me away
from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace! Oh, what have I —
done? My
God, my God! [Breaks into tears.
Jean. So we have got around to that tune now! What you have —
done? Nothing but what many others have done before you.
Julie. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me! — I'm fall-

ing, I'm falling!

Jean. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards.
 8 I

1 August Strindberg

Julie. What power drew me to you? Was it the attraction

horrible
which the strong on the weak the one who is rising on one
exercises —
who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know what love is? —
Jean. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been there
before?
Julie. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think!
Jean. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way I am.
Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us is just as

good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat you to a glass of

something superfine.

He opens the table-drawer, takes out the wine bottle and fills up
two glasses that have already been used.

Julie. Where did you get that wine?

Jean. In the cellar.

Julie. My father's Burgundy!

Jean. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law?

Julie. And I am drinking beer — I!

Jean. It shows merely that I have better taste than you.

Julie. Thief!
Jean. Do you mean to tell on me?
Julie. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, or
have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast of
innocent games
Jean. Innocent — hm!
and forth] Can there be another human being on
Julie. [Walking back
earth so unhappy at this moment?
as I am
Jean. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think of
Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also?
Julie. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. No, a
menial is a menial
Jean. And a whore a whore!
Julie. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make an
end of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I am sinking!
Save me! Save me!
Jean. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lying among
the onions and saw you up there among the roses — I'll tell you now —
had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have.
Julie. And you who wanted to die for my sake!
Jean. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk.
 Miss Julie 19

Julie. Lies in other words!

Jean. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read the story in a
paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into a wood-box
full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against him for not support-
ing her kid
Julie. So that's the sort you are-
Jean. Well, I had to think of something — for it's the high-faluting
stuff that the women bite on.

Julie. Scoundrel!
Jean. Rot!
Julie. And now you have seen the back of the hawk
Jean. Well, I don't know
Julie. And I was to be the first branch
Jean. But the branch was rotten
Julie. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel
Jean. And I the hotel
Julie. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor your
bills

Jean. No, that I should have done myself-

Julie. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt!

Jean. Well, wash it off!
Julie. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you!
Jean. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial shut up and get out —
of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I am vulgar. People
of my kind would never in their lives act as vulgarly as you have acted to-
night. Do you think any servant girl would go for a man as you did? Did
you ever see a girl of my class throw herself at anybody in that way? I have
never seen the like of it except among beasts and prostitutes.
Julie. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me I haven't de- —
served any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Help me out of
this, if there be any way to do so!

Jean. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denial of my

share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person in my place
would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the invitation to do so had not
come from yourself? I am still sitting here in a state of utter surprise
Julie. And pride
Jean. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory was too
easy to bring with it any real intoxication.

Julie. Strike me some more!

Jean. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I don't
20 August Strindberg

want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. On one hand I

cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover that what has
dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the hawk
is simply grey on
1

the back also; that there powder on the tender cheek; that there may be
is

black borders on the polished nails; and that the handkerchief may be
dirty, although it smells of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to

have discovered that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more
genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far beneath
your —
own cook it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall flowers beaten

down by the rain and turned into mud.

Julie. You speak as if you were already above me?

Jean. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess of
you, but you could never make me a count.
Julie. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever
achieve.
Jean. That's true. But I might be the father of counts — if

Julie. But you are a thief — and I am not.

Jean. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still farther down.
And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a sense as a member
of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't call it theft when
children pick a few of the berries that load down the vines. [His passion is

aroused once more] Miss Julie, you are a magnificent woman, and far too

good for one like me. You were swept along by a spell of intoxication, and
now you want up your mistake by making yourself believe that
to cover

you are in love with me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks
might tempt you —
in which case your love is no better than mine. I
could never rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the
mere animal, and your love I can never win.
Julie. Are you so sure of that?
Jean. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might love you:
yes, without doubt —
for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up to her and
takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want to be so, and
it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in a man who has once

been set on fire by you. [Puts his arm around her waist] You are like burnt
wine with strong spices in it, and one of your kisses

He tries to lead her away, hut she frees herselfgently from his hold.

Julie. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me.

1. cat-gold] yellow mica.

 Miss Julie 21

Jean. How then? — Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words!
Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then?
Julie. How? How? I don't know — Not at all! I hate you as I hate rats,

but I cannot escape from you!

Jean. Escape with me!
Julie. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape! — But I am so
tired. Give me a glass of wine.

Jean pours out wine.

Julie. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We have still
some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more.
Jean. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head.
Julie. What difference would that make?
Jean. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk — What
was it you wanted to tell me?
Julie. We must get away. But first we must have a talk that is, I must —
talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have told me about your
life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we know each other right to
the bottom before we begin the journey together.
Jean. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regret it

afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your life.

Julie. Are you not my friend?

Jean. Yes, at times — but
don't rely on me.
Julie. —
You only talk like that and besides, my secrets are known to
everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came of quite
plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her time about equality,
and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. And she had a
decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when my father proposed to
her, she said she wouldn't marry him — and then she did it just the same.
I —
came into the world against my mothers wish, I have come to think.
Then my mother wanted to bring me up in a perfectly natural state, and
at the same time I was to learn everything that a boy is taught, so that I

might prove that a woman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy,

and was taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with
the cows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I was
even forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over the estate
men were do women's work, and women to do men's with the
set to —
result that everythingwent to pieces and we became the laughing-stock of
the whole neighbourhood. At last my father must have recovered from
the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and everything was changed to
suit his own ideas. My mother was taken sick what kind of sickness it —
 —

22 August Strindberg

was I don't know, but she fell often into convulsions, and she used to hide
herself in the garret or in the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all

night. Then came the big fire, of which you have heard. The house, the
stable, and the barn were burned down, and this under circumstances

which made it look as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disaster
occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent for
renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messengers carelessness, so
that it came too late. [She fills her glass again and drinks.
Jean. Don't drink any more.
Julie. Oh, what does it matter! —
We were without a roof over our
heads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't know where to
get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mother suggested
that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a brick manufac-
turer living not far from here. My father got the loan, but was not
permitted to pay any interest, which astonished him. And so the house
was built up again. [Drinks again] Do you know who set fire to the house?
Jean. Her ladyship, your mother!
Julie. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was?
Jean. Your mother's lover?
Julie. Do you know to whom the money belonged?
Jean. Wait a minute —
no, that I don't know
Julie. To my mother.
Jean. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement.
Julie. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortune
of her own which she did not want to leave in my fathers control, so she
invested it with — her friend.

Jean. Who copped it.

Julie. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. He

couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he couldn't prove that
it was his wife's money. That was my mothers revenge because he had
made himself master in his own house. At that time he came near
shooting himself —
was even rumoured that he had tried and failed. But
it

he took a new lease of life, and my mother had to pay for what she had
done. I can tell you that those were five years I'll never forget! My
sympathies were with my father, but I took my mothers side because I was
not aware of the true circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and
hate men — for she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard
and I promised her on my oath that I would never become a man's slave.
Jean. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney.
Julie. Yes, in order that he should be my slave.

i
 Miss Julie 23

Jean. And he didn't want to?

Julie. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him.
Jean. Yes, I saw it — in the stable-yard.

Julie. What did you see?

Jean. Just that — how he broke the engagement.
Julie. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, the
scoundrel?
Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, Miss Julie?
Jean.
Julie. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then when the weakness —
comes over me oh, what shame! —
Jean. And you hate me too?
[Link] measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast
Jean. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right?
Julie. That's right!
Jean. But now there is nothing to shoot with — and there is no dog.
What are we to do then?
Julie. Go abroad.
Jean. In order to plague each other to death?
Julie. No — in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as
long as enjoyment is And then die!
possible. —
Jean. Die? How Then I think it's much better to start a hotel.
silly!

Julie. [Without listening to Jean] —

At Lake Como, where the sun is
always shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and the oranges
are glowing.
Jean. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges except in

the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has a lot of villas that
can be rented to loving couples, and that's a profitable business — do you
know why? Because they take a lease for six months — and then they leave
after three weeks.

Julie. [Naively] Why after three weeks?

Jean. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paid just

the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that way it goes on
all the time, for there is plenty of love — even if it doesn't last long.

Julie. You don't want to die with me?

Jean. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, and
because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providence which has
bestowed life on us.

Julie. Do you mean to say that you believe in God?

Of course,
Jean. I do. And go I to church every other Sunday. Frankly
speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going to bed.
24 August Strindberg

Julie. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you know
what you owe a woman that you have spoiled?
Jean. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] You're
welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt.
Julie. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what the law
provides
Jean. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman
who seduces a man.
Julie. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by our going
abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce?
Jean. Suppose I refuse to enter into this mesalliance?
Julie. Mesalliance
Jean. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, for nobody
in my family was ever guilty of arson.
Julie. How do you know?
Jean. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no
pedigrees — except in the police bureau. But I have read about your
pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you
know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep with the
king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such ancestry. I

have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself.

Julie. That's what unburdening my heart to one not worthy of
I get for
it; for sacrificing my family's honour

Jean. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink,
for then you talk. And you must not talk!

Julie. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at least you
loved me!
Jean. For the what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to jump
last time:
over your whip? Am and lure you down to Lake Como for
I to kiss you,
three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you expect? This is
getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes from getting mixed up
with women. Miss Julie! I see that you are unhappy; I know that you are
suffering; but I cannot understand you. We never carry on like that. There
is never any hatred between us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when

our work leaves us time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day
and all night, as you have. I believe you are sick I am sure you are sick. —
Julie. You should be good to me —
and now you speak like a human
being.
Jean. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then you
won't let me wipe myself — on you!
 Miss Julie 25

Julie. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do — where I am

to turn?
Jean. O Lord, if I only knew that myself!
Julie. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought to be
some way of saving myself.
Jean. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything.
Julie. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows.
Jean. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible.
Julie. [Hesitating] But — it might happen again.
Jean. That's true.
Julie. And the results?
Jean. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn't
think of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do —
you must leave.
At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would be lost, so you
—
must go alone abroad anywhere! —
Julie. Alone? Where? I can't do — it.

Jean. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, then you
know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants to keep
on, as the done anyhow. Then one grows more and more
harm is

reckless — and all comes out. So you must get away! Then you
at last it

can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it was me.
And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would be very anxious
to find out.

Julie. I'll go if you come with me.

Jean. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julie torun away with her
valet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the count could never
survive it.

Julie. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, so fearfully

tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longer think, no longer
act

Jean. you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do you
Do
strut and turn up your noses
as if you were the lords of creation? Well, I

am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get some travelling

money, and then come back again.
Julie. [In an undertone] Come up with me!
Jean. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment]
No, you must go at once! hand and leads her
[Takes her by the out.

Julie. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean?
Jean. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out how
it feels!
26 August Strindberg

Julie goes out.

Jean, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes out
a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time;
dumb play until Christine enters dressed for church; she has a
false shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.

Christine. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have you
been up anyhow?
to

Jean. Oh, it was Miss Julie who dragged in the people. Have you been
sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all?
Christine. I have been sleeping like a log.
Jean. And dressed for church already?
Christine. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion
to-day?
Jean. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. Well,
come on with it. [Sits down; Christine helps him to put on the shirt

front and the white tie.

[Pause.
Jean. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day?
Christine. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess.

Jean. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you choke me!
Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy!
Christine. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man,
you're just green in the face!
Jean. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julie.
Christine. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! [Pause.
Jean. Say, Christine.
Christine. Well?
Jean. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her!
Christine. What is it that's funny?

Jean. Everything! [Pause.

Christine. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are only half emptied]
So you've been drinking together also?
Jean. Yes.
Christine. Shame on you! Look me in the eye!
Jean. Yes.
Christine. Is it possible? Is it possible?
Jean. [After a moments thought] Yes, it is!

Christine. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. Its

awful!
 Miss Julie 27

Jean. You are not jealous of her, are you?

Christine. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'd have
scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, and I can't tell
why. Oh my, but that was nasty!
Jean. Are you mad at her then?
Christine. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poor girl!

No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house any longer, with people
for whom it is impossible to have any respect.
Jean. Why should you have any respect for them?
Christine. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! You
wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's to lower
oneself, I think.
Jean. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not a bit
better than we.
Christine. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, then it's no
use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count! Think of
him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don't want to stay
any longer in — And
this house with a fellow like you, too. If it

had been the County Attorney — if it had only been some one of her
own sort

Jean. Now look here!

Christine. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there's after all

some difference between one kind of people and another No, but this is —
something I'll never get over! —
And the young lady who was so proud,
and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe she would ever let one
come near her— and such one And who wanted a at that! she to have poor
Diana because
shot had been running around with
she the gate-keeper's
pug! — Well, — But won't
I declare! any I stay here longer, and next
October I get out of here.
Jean. And then?
Christine. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it would
be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that we're going to get
married after all.

Jean. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't get a
place like this.

Christine. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as a janitor,

or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Of course, the

public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes steady, and then there is

a pension for the widow and the children

Jean. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my style to think
28 August Strindberg

of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. I must say that my
plans have been looking toward something better than that kind of thing.
Christine. Your plans, yes — but you've got obligations also, and
those you had better keep in mind!
Jean. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! I

know what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on the
outside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go in now and
get ready, and then we'll go to church.
Christine. Who is walking around up there?
Jean. I don't know, unless it be Clara.
Christine. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who's
come home without anybody hearing him?
Jean. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then he would
have rung for me.
Christine. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have I seen
the like of it!

The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. The
light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the
windows. Jean goes to the door and gives a signal.

Julie. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small bird-cage cov-

ered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I am ready.
Jean. Hush! Christine is awake.
Julie. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Did
she suspect anything?
Jean. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look!
Julie. How do I look?
Jean. You're as pale as a corpse, and — pardon me, but your face is

dirty.

Julie. Let me wash it then —

Now! [She goes over to the washstand
and washes her face and hands] Give me a towel Oh! — — That's the sun
rising!

Jean. And then the ogre bursts.

Julie. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night! — But listen, Jean.

Come with me, for now I have the money.

Jean. [Doubtfully] Enough?
[Link] to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travel alone
to-day. Think of it —
Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammed with
people who stare at you —
and standing still at stations when you want to
fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories will come: childhood

memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of the church was

 —
Miss Julie 29

turned into a green forest — birches and lilacs; the dinner at the festive
table with relatives and friends; the afternoon in the park, with
dancing
and music, flowers and games! Oh, you may run and run, but your
memories are in the baggage-car, and with them remorse and repentance!
Jean. I'll go with you —
but at once, before its too late. This very
moment!
Julie. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.
Jean. But no baggage! That would only give us away.
Julie. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in the car.
Jean. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it?
Julie. Its only my finch. I can't leave it behind.
Jean. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must be
raving mad! Drop the cage!
Julie. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only living
creature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Let me
take it along!
Jean. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud — Christine can
hear us.

Julie. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather have you
kill it!

Jean. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck.

Julie. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't — no, I cannot!
Jean. Let me — I can!
Julie. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little birdie,
must it die and go away from its mistress!
Jean. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question of
your life, of your future? Come, quick!

Snatches the bird away from her carries y

it to the chopping-block
and picks up an axe. Miss Julie turns away.

Jean. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of shooting
with a revolver [brings down the axe] — then you wouldn't have fainted
for a drop of blood.
Julie. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the life of
an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate and despise you!
There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when I first met you!
Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my mother's womb!
Jean. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on!
Julie. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against her
will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot — I must see — Hush! There's a
carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking her eyes off the
30 August Strindberg

block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the sight of blood. You think I
am as —
weak as that oh, I should like to see your blood, your brains, on
that block there. I should like to see your whole sex swimming in blood
like that thing there. I think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my
feet in your open breast, and eat your heart from the spit! — You think I

am weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was yearning
foryour seed; you think I want to carry your offspring under my heart and
nourish it with my blood —
bear your children and take your name! Tell
me, you, what are you called anyhow? I have never heard your family
—
name and maybe you haven't any. I should become Mrs. "Hovel," or
Mrs. "Backyard" —
you dog there, that's wearing my collar; you lackey
with my coat of arms on your buttons —
and I should share with my cook,
and be the rival of my own servant. Oh! Oh! Oh! — You think am I a
coward and want to run away! No, now I'll stay — and let the lightning
strike! My father will come home — will find his chiffonier opened — the
money gone! Then he'll ring — twice for the valet — and then send he'll

for the sheriff — and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but
it will be good to get an end to it — if it only be the end! And then his
heart will break, and he dies! — So there will be an — and
end to all of us
all will be quiet — peace — eternal — And then
rest! of arms the coat will

be shattered on the coffin — and be wiped out — but

the count's line will
the lackey's line goes on in the orphan asylum — wins laurels in the
gutter, and ends in jail.

Jean. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julie! Now you put the
miller back in his sack!

Christine enters dressed for church and carrying a hymn-book in

her hand.

up to her and throws herself into her arms as

Julie. [Hurries if seeking
protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man!
Christine. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this on
the Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, what a
mess you have made! — What's the meaning of all this? And the way you
shout and carry on!
Julie. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware of
that scoundrel!
Jean. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies are discussing I'll

get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right.

Julie. You must understand me, and you must listen to me.
Christine. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping.
 ——
Miss Julie 31

Where are you going in your travelling-dress — and he with his hat on
what?— What?
Julie. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything
Christine. I don't want to know anything
Julie. You must listen to me
Christine. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean?
Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. But if you're

planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop to that!

Julie. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, and listen

to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here — and so we must
leave
Christine. Hm, hm!
Julie. [Brightening up] But now I have got an idea, you know. Suppose
all three of us should leave — go abroad — go Switzerland and to start a

hotel together — have money, you know— and Jean and could run
I I the
whole thing — and could
you, I thought,
charge of take the kitchen
Wouldn't that be — Say now! And come along with Then
fine! yes, us!

everything is — Oh,
fixed! say yes!
[She puts her arms around Christine and pats her.

Christine. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm!

Julie. [Presto tempo]You have never travelled, Christine you must —
get out and have a look You cannot imagine what fun it is to
at the world.

travel on a train —
constantly new people new countries and then we — —
get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens in passing that's —
—
what you like and then we go to the theatres and to the opera and —
when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have a lot of museums,
where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all those big painters, you
know — Haven't you heard of Munich, where King Louis used to live
the king, you know, that went mad —
And then we'll have a look at his
—
castle he has still some castles that are furnished just as in a fairy tale
and from there it isn't very far to Switzerland — and the Alps, you
know — just think of the Alps, with snow on top of them in the middle of
the summer — and there you have orange trees and laurels that are green
all the year around

Jean is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop

which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to

the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.

Julie. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel — and I sit in

the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists — and goes out
32 August Strindberg

marketing — and writes letters — That's a life for you — Then the train
whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and it rings in the
restaurant — and then I make out the bills — and I am going to salt them,
too— You can never imagine how timid tourists are when they come to

pay And you — you

their bills! will sit like a queen in the kitchen. Of
course, you are not going to stand at the stove yourself. And you'll have to
dress neatly and nicely in order to show yourself to people —
and with
your looks — yes, I am not flattering you — you'll catch a husband some
fine day — some rich —
Englishman, you know for those fellows are so

— and then we grow — and we

easy [slowing down] to catch rich build us a
Lake Como — of
villa at course, now and
it is raining a little in that place
then — but sun must
[limply] the be shining sometimes — although it

looks dark — and — then — we can go home again — and come

or else
back — — some
here or other place
Christine. Tell me, Miss Julie, do you believe in all that yourself?
Julie. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself?
Christine. Yes.

Julie. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. [She

sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on the
table] Nothing! Nothing at all!

Christine. [Turns to the right, where Jean is standing] So you were

going to run away!
Jean. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well^ that's

putting it rather strong. You have heard what the young lady proposes,
and though she is tired out now by being up all night, it's a proposition
that can be put through all right.

Christine. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that
one there ?

Jean. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking to

your mistress! Do you understand?
Christine. Mistress!
Jean. Yes!
Christine. Well, well! Listen to him!
Jean. Yes, it would be you to listen a little more and talk a
better for
little less. Miss Julie is your mistress, and what makes you disrespectful to

her now should make you feel the same way about yourself.
Christine. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself
Jean. To have none for others!
Christine. —
not to go below my own station. You can't say that the
count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the swineherd.
You can't say anything of the kind!
 Miss Julie 33

Jean. Yes, its your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman.
Christine. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the counts
stable!

Jean. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and
bribes from the butcher?
Christine. What's that?
Jean. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer!
You — you!
Christine. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need a
good sermon on top of such a deed.
Jean. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourself and
confess your own deeds.
Christine. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enough forgiveness to
cover you [Link] Saviour suffered and died on the cross for all our sins,

and if we go to him with a believing heart and a repentant mind, he'll

take all our guilt on himself.

Julie. Do you believe that, Christine?

Christine. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and the faith

of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, Miss Julie. And
where sin abounds, grace abounds too.
Julie. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if

Christine. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of God,
and that is not bestowed on everybody
Julie. On whom is it bestowed then?
Christine. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, Miss Julie,

and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those that are last shall

be the foremost
Julie. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last.

Christine. [Going right on] — and it is easier for a camel to go

through a needles eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. That's the
way it is, Miss Julie. Now am going,I however — alone — and as I pass by,
I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses if anybody should like to get

away before the count comes home. Good-bye! [Goes out.

Jean. Well, ain't she a devil! — And all this for the sake of a finch!
Julie. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch! — Can you see any way
out of this, any way to end it?

Jean. [Ponders] No!

Julie. What would you do in my place?
Jean. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as a woman, as

one who has — fallen. I don't know — yes, I do know!

Julie. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this?
 —
34 August Strindberg

Jean. Yes! — But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, for there

is a difference between us.

Julie. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference?
Jean. It is the same — — as that between man and woman.
Julie. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot! — My
father couldn't either, that time he should have done it.

Jean. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge
first.

Julie. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again,

through me.
Jean. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julie?
Julie. Yes, immensely, but must have hated him, too. I think I must
I

have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the one who

reared me in contempt for my own sex half woman and half man! —
Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's my mother's —
my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I haven't a
come from my father; not a passion that didn't come
thought that didn't
from my mother; and now this last this about all human creatures —
being equal — I got that from him, whom I call a scoundrelmy fiance —
How can it be my own fault? To put the blame on Jesus, as
for that reason!
Christine does —
no, I am too proud for that, and know too much
thanks to my father's teachings And that about a rich person not—
getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and Christine, who has money in the
savings-bank, wouldn't get in anyhow. Whose is the fault? — What does
it matter whose it is? For just the same I am the one who must bear the
guilt and the results

Jean. Yes, but

Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. Miss Julie leaps to her
feet. Jean changes his coat.

Jean. The count is back. Think if Christine

[Goes to the speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.

Julie. Now he has been to the chiffonier!

Jean. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectators being
unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship! [Listening] Yes,
your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, your lordship! [Listen-
ing] Yes, yes! In half an hour!
Julie. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what did
he say?
Jean. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an hour.
 —
— I

Miss Julie 35

Julie. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't do anything;

can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live — can't die! Help me
now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog! Do me this last
favour —
save my honour, and save his name! You know what my will
ought to do, and what it cannot do — now give me your will, and make
me do it!

Jean. I don't know why — but now I — under-

can't either I don't
stand — It is just as if this coat here made — cannot command you
a I

and now, since heard I've the count's voice — now — I can't quite explain
it — but— Oh, damned menial back my
that is in spine again. I believe if

the count should come down and he should here, if tell me to cut my own
throat — do on
I'd it the spot!
Julie. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! — You did
some fine acting when you were on your knees before me — then you
were the nobleman — — have you
or ever been to a show and seen one
who could hypnotize people?

Jean makes a sign of assent.

Julie. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. He
says: sweep. And the man sweeps.
Jean. But then the other person must be asleep.
Julie. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already — there is nothing in the
whole room but a lot of smoke — and you look like a stove — that looks
like a man in black clothes and a high hat — and your eyes glow like coals
when the fire is going out — and your face is a lump of white ashes. [The
sunlight has reached the floor and is now falling on Jean] How warm and
nice it is! [She rubs her hands as if warming them before a fire] And so

light — and so peaceful!

Jean. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom! Go
now, while it is light — to the barn — and
[
Whispers something in her ear.

Julie. [Awd&e] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first

that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even if you don't
believe it.

Jean. The foremost? No, I can't do that! — But — Miss wait Julie —
know! You are no longer among the foremost — now when you are among
the— last!
Julie. That's right. I am among the last of all: am the very last. Oh! I

But now I cannot go — Tell me once more that must go! I

Jean. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot!

 — —
36 August Strindberg

Julie. And those that are foremost shall be the last.

Jean. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away my strength,
too, so that I become a coward — What? I thought I saw the bell
moving! — To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't only the bell
there —
somebody behind it a hand that makes it move and some-
is —
thing else that makes the hand move —
but if you cover up your ears
just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever! Rings and rings,
until you answer it — —
and then it's too late then comes the sheriff and —
then

Two quick rings from the bell.

Jean. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It's horrid! But
there's no other end to it! — Go!
Julie goes firmly out through the door.

Curtain.
 DOVER -THRIFT -EDITIONS
All books complete and unabridged. All 5 3/i6" * 8 lA", paperbound.
Just $1.00-$2.00 in U.S.A.

POETRY
Great Love Poems, Shane Weller (ed.). 128pp. 27284-2 $1.00
Selected Poems, Walt Whitman. 128pp. 26878-0 $1.00
The Ballad of Reading Gaol and Other Poems, Oscar Wilde. 64pp. 27072-6 $1.00
Favorite Poems, William Wordsworth. 80pp. 27073-4 $1.00
Early Poems, William Butler Yeats. 128pp. 27808-5 $1.00

FICTION
Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, Edwin A. Abbott. 96pp. 27263-X $1.00
Beowulf, Beowulf (trans, by R. K. Gordon). 64pp. 27264-8 $1.00

Civil War Stories, Ambrose Bierce. 128pp. 28038-1 $1.00

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll. 96pp. 27543-4 $1.00

O Pioneers!, Willa Cather. 128pp. 27785-2 $1.00

Five Great Short Stories, Anton Chekhov. 96pp. 26463-7 $1.00

Favorite Father Brown Stories, G. K. Chesterton. 96pp. 27545-0 $1.00

The Awakeninc, Kate Chopin. 128pp. 27786-0 $1.00

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad. 80pp. 26464-5 $1.00

The Secret Sharer and Other Stories, Joseph Conrad. 128pp. 27546-9 $1.00

The Open Boat and Other Stories, Stephen Crane. 128pp. 27547-7 $1.00

The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane. 112pp. 26465-3 $1.00

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens. 80pp. 26865-9 $1.00
The Cricket on the Hearth and Other Christmas Stories, Charles Dickens. 128pp.
28039-X $1.00
Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. 96pp. 27053-X $1.00
Six Great Sherlock Holmes Stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 112pp. 27055-6 $1.00

Where Angels Fear to Tread, E. M. Forster. 128pp. (Available in U.S. only) 27791-7
$1.00

The Overcoat and Other Short Stories, Nikolai Gogol. 112pp. 27057-2 $1.00

Great Ghost Stories, John Grafton (ed.). 112pp. 27270-2 $1.00

The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Short Stories, Bret Harte. 96pp. 27271-0 $1 .00

The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 192pp. 28048-9 $2.00

Young Goodman Brown and Other Short Stories, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 128pp.
27060-2 $1.00
The Gift of the Magi and Other Short Stories, O. Henry. 96pp. 27061-0 $1.00

The Nutcracker and the Golden Pot, E. T. A. Hoffmann. 128pp. 27806-9 $1.00
The Beast in the Jungle and Other Stories, Henry James. 128pp. 27552-3 $1.00
The Turn of the Screw, Henry James. 96pp. 26684-2 $1.00
Dubliners, James Joyce. 160pp. 26870-5 $1.00
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce. 192pp. 28050-0 $2.00
 DOVER -THRIFT -EDITIONS
All books complete and unabridged. All 5 3/i6" x 8V4", paperbound.
Just $1.00-$2.00 in U.S.A.

FICTION
The Man Who Would Be Kinc and Other Stories, Rudyard Kipling. 128pp. 28051-9
$1.00

Selected Short Stories, D. H. Lawrence. 128pp. 27794-1 $1.00

Green Tea and Other Ghost Stories, J. Sheridan LeFanu. 96pp. 27795- X $1.00
The Call of the Wild, Jack London. 64pp. 26472-6 $1.00
Five Great Short Stories, Jack London. 96pp. 27063-7 $1.00
White Fang, Jack London. 160pp. 26968-X $1.00
The Necklace and Other Short Stories, Guy de Maupassant. 128pp. 27064-5 $1.00

Bartleby and Benito Cereno, Herman Melville. 112pp. 26473-4 $1.00

The Gold-Buc and Other Tales, Edgar Allan Poe. 128pp. 26875-6 $1.00
The Queen of Spades and Other Stories, Alexander Pushkin. 128pp. 28054-3 $1.00
Three Lives, Gertrude Stein. 176pp. 28059-4 $2.00

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson. 64pp.
26688-5 $1.00
Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson. 160pp. 27559-0 $1.00
The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Short Stories, Leo Tolstoy. 144pp. 27805-0 $1.00
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain. 224pp. 28061-6 $2.00
The Mysterious Stranger and Other Stories, Mark Twain. 128pp. 27069-6 $1.00
Candide, Voltaire (Francois-Marie Arouet). 112pp. 26689-3 $1.00
The Invisible Man, H. G. Wells. 112pp. (Available in U.S. only.) 27071-8 $1.00
Ethan Frome, Edith Wharton. 96pp. 26690-7 $1.00
The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde. 192pp. 27807-7 $1.00

NONFICTION
The Devil's Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce. 144pp. 27542-6 $1.00
The Souls of Black Folk, W. E. B. Du Bois. 176pp. 28041-1 $2.00
Self-Reliance and Other Essays, Ralph Waldo Emerson. 128pp. 27790-9 $1.00
Great Speeches, Abraham Lincoln. 112pp. 26872-1 $1.00
The Prince, Niccolo Machiavelli. 80pp. 27274-5 $1.00
Symposium and Phaedrus, Plato. 96pp. 27798-4 $1.00
The Trial and Death of Socrates: Four Dialogues, Plato. 128pp. 27066-1 $1.00
Civil Disobedience and Other Essays, Henry David Thoreau. 96pp. 27563-9 $1.00
The Theory of the Leisure Class, Thorstein Veblen. 256pp. 28062-4 $2.00

PLAYS
The Cherry Orchard, Anton Chekhov. 64pp. 26682-6 $1.00
The Three Sisters, Anton Chekhov. 64pp. 27544-2 $1.00
The Way of the World, William Congreve. 80pp. 27787-9 $1.00
Medea, Euripides. 64pp. 27548-5 $1.00
The Mikado, William Schwenck Gilbert. 64pp. 27268-0 $1.00
 DOVER -THRIFT -EDITIONS
All books complete and unabridged. All 5 3/ie" x S lA'\ paperbound.
Just $1.00-$2.00 in U.S.A.

PLAYS
Faust, Part One, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. 192pp. 28046-2 $2.00
She Stoops to Conquer, Oliver Goldsmith. 80pp. 26867-5 $1.00
A Doll's House, Henrik Ibsen. 80pp. 27062-9 $1.00
Hedda Gabler, Henrik Ibsen. 80pp. 26469-6 $1.00

Volpone, Ben Jonson. 112pp. 28049-7 $1.00

The Misanthrope, Moliere. 64pp. 27065-3 $1.00

Hamlet, William Shakespeare. 128pp. 27278-8 $1.00

Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare. 80pp. 26876-4 $1.00
King Lear, William Shakespeare. 112pp. 28058-6 $1.00
Macbeth, William Shakespeare. 96pp. 27802-6 $1.00
A Midsummer Night's Dream, William Shakespeare. 80pp. 27067-X $1.00
Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare. 96pp. 27557-4 $1.00
Arms and the Man, George Bernard Shaw. 80pp. (Available in U.S. only.) 26476-9
$1.00

The School for Scandal, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 96pp. 26687-7 $1.00

Antigone, Sophocles. 64pp. 27804-2 $1.00

Oedipus Rex, Sophocles. 64pp. 26877-2 $1.00
Miss Julie, August Strindberg. 64pp. 27281-8 $1.00
The Playboy of the Western World and Riders to the Sea, J. M. Synge. 80pp.
27562-0 $1.00
The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde. 64pp. 26478-5 $1.00

For a complete descriptive list volumes in the Dover Thrift Edition* Mffal
of all

write for a free Dover and Literature Catalog (59047- X) to

Fiction
Dover Publications, Inc., Dept. DTE, 31 E. 2nd Street, Mineola, NY 1.501 1
 August Strindberg

MISS JULIE
In Miss Julie, a willful young aristocrat, whose perverse nature
has already driven her fiance to break off their engagement,
pursues and effectively seduces her father's valet during the
course of a Midsummer's Eve celebration. The progress of that
seduction and the play's stunning denouement shocked Swedish
audiences who first attended the play in 1889.

Despite its controversial debut, this now-classic drama, inspired

by the new ideas of naturalism and psychology that swept
Europe in the late 19th century, helped to shape modern theater,
and remains one of the most potent — and most frequently
performed — of modern plays. The full text of Miss Julie is
reprinted here as translated by Edwin Bjorkman, complete with
Strindberg's critical preface to the play, considered by many to
be one of the most important manifestos in theater history.

Unabridged Dover (1992) republication of Miss Julie from Plays

by August Strindberg, Second Series, translated by Edwin
Bjorkman, published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York,
1913. New introductory Note. Dramatis Personae. Author's
Preface. 64pp. 5 3/i6 x 8J4. Paperbound.

Free Complete Dover Catalog available upon request.

ISBN D-Hflb-E7Efll-fl
9C 00(D

1-50 INUSA II ill 1

[Link] INCANADA
[Link]. IN U.K. 9 78 0486''272* ii8 III 1