August Strindberg: Miss Julie and Other Plays

Why should I just take what nobody else will have? Perhaps you—taking it all round—are stronger than I am at this particular moment—you never got anything out of me, but you gave me something of yourself. Oh, it’s really a case of thieving, in my case, isn’t it?—and when you woke up I had possessed myself of the very thing you missed.

How else does it come about that everything you touched became worthless and sterile? You couldn’t keep any man’s love, with those tulips and those passions of yours—but I could; you weren’t able to learn the art of my life out of your authors, but I learned it; you haven’t got any little Eskil, although your papa was called Eskil.

Else why do you sit there without a word, and brood and brood and brood? I thought it was strength, but perhaps the reason is just that you haven’t anything to say, that’s because you couldn’t think of anything to say. [Rises and takes up the slippers.] I’m going home now—and taking these tulip things with me—your tulips, my dear; you couldn’t learn anything from others—you couldn’t yield, and that’s why you crumpled up like a dried-up leaf. I didn’t do that. I must really thank you, Amelia, for the excellent training you have given me—thank you for teaching my husband how to love. And now I’m going home to love him. [Exit.]

[Curtain.]

The Mother

A Dresser

The Daughter

Lise

[The MOTHER and the DRESSER are smoking cigars, drinking stout, and playing cards. The DAUGHTER sits by the window and looks out with intentness.]

Mother.Come along, Helen—it’s your deal.

Daughter.Oh, please let me off playing cards on a fine summer day like this. ,

Dresser.That’s right. Nice and affectionate to her mother, as usual.

Mother.Don’t sit like that on the veranda and get scorched.

Daughter.The sun isn’t a bit hot here.

Mother.Well, there’s a draught, anyway. [To the DRESSER.] Your deal, dear. Righto!

Daughter.Mayn’t I go and bathe this morning with the other girls?

Mother.Not without your mamma, you know that once for all.

Daughter.Oh, but the girls can swim, mamma, and you can’t swim at all.

Mother.That’s not the question, whether a body can swim or can’t, but you know, my child, that you mustn’t go out without your mamma.

Daughter.Do I know it? Since I’ve been able to understand the simplest thing, that’s been dinned into my ears.

Dresser.That only shows that Helen has had a most affectionate mother, who has always tried her best. Yes —yes; no doubt about it.

Mother.[Holds out her hand to the DRESSER.] Thank you for your kindly words, Augusta—whatever else I may have been—that—but I was always a tender-hearted mother. I can say that with a clear conscience.

Daughter.Then I suppose it’s no good my asking you if I can go down and have a game of tennis with the others?

Dresser.No, no, young lady. A girl shouldn’t sauce her mamma. And when she won’t oblige those who are nearest and dearest to her, by taking part in their harmless fun, it’s in a manner of speaking adding insult to injury for her to come and ask on top of it, if she can’t go and amuse herself with other people.

Daughter.Yes—yes—yes. I know all that already. I know—I know!

Mother.You’re making yourself disagreeable again. Get something proper to do, and don’t sit slacking there in that fashion. A grown-up girl like you!

Daughter.Then why do you always treat me like a child if I’m grown up?

Mother.Because you behave like one.

Daughter.You have no right to rag me—you yourself wanted me to remain like this.

Mother.Look here, Helen; for some time past I think you’ve been a bit too bloomin’ smart. Come, whom have you been talking to down here?

Daughter.With you two, among others.

Mother.You don’t mean to say you’re going to start having secrets from your own mother?

Daughter.It’s about time.

Dresser.Shame on you, you young thing, being so cheeky to your own mother!

Mother.Come, let’s do something sensible instead of jangling like this. Why not come here, and read over your part with me?

Daughter.The manager said I wasn’t to go through it with anyone, because if I did, I should only learn something wrong.

Mother.I see, so that’s the thanks one gets for trying to help you. Of course, of course! Everything that I do is always silly, I suppose.

Daughter.Why do you do it then? And why do you put the blame on to me, whenever you do anything wrong?

Dresser.Of course you want to remind your mother that she ain’t educated? Ugh, ’ow common!

Daughter.You say I want to, aunt, but it’s not the case. If mother goes and teaches me anything wrong, I’ve got to learn the whole thing over again, if I don’t want to lose my engagement. We don’t want to find ourselves stranded.

Mother.I see. You’re now letting us know that we’re living on what you earn. But do you really know what you owe Aunt Augusta here? Do you know that she looked after us when your blackguard of a father left us in the lurch?—that she took care of us and that you therefore owe her a debt which you can never pay off—in all your born days? Do you know that? [DAUGHTER is silent.] Do you know that? Answer.

Daughter.I refuse to answer.

Mother.You do—do you? You won’t answer?

Dresser.Steady on, Amelia. The people next door might hear us, and then they’d start gossiping again. So you go steady.

Mother.[To DAUGHTER.] Put on your things and come out for a walk.

Daughter.I’m not going out for a walk to-day.

Mother.This is now the third day that you’ve refused to go out for a walk with your mother. [Reflecting.] Would it be possible? Go out on to the veranda, Helen. I want to say something to Aunt Augusta. [DAUGHTER exit on to the veranda.]

Mother.Do you think it’s possible?

Dresser.What?

Mother.That she’s found out something?

Dresser.It ain’t possible.

Mother.It might ’appen, of course. Not that I think anybody could be so heartless as to tell it to her to her face. I had a nephew who was thirty-six years old before he found out that his father was a suicide, but Helen’s manner’s changed, and there’s something at the bottom of it. For the last eight days I’ve noticed that she couldn’t bear my being with her on the promenade. She would only go along lonely paths; when anyone met us she looked the other way; she was nervous, couldn’t manage to get a single word out. There’s something behind all this.

Dresser.Do you mean, if I follow you aright, that the society of her mother is painful to her?—the society of her own mother?

Mother.Yes.

Dresser.No, that’s really a bit too bad.

Mother.Well, I’ll tell you something which is even worse. Would you believe it, that when we came here, she didn’t introduce me to some of her friends on the steamer?