August Strindberg: Miss Julie and Other Plays

Mother.Look here, my girl; I know what your name is, and who you are, even though I haven’t had the privilege of being introduced to you, but I should really like to know what a girl of your years has got to teach a woman of mine.

Lise.Who knows? For the last six years, since my mother died, I have spent all my time in bringing up my young sisters and brothers, and I’ve found out that there are people who never learn anything from life, however old they get.

Mother.What do you mean?

Lise.I mean this. Your daughter has now got an opportunity of taking her place in- the world; of either getting recognition for her talent or of contracting an alliance with a young man in good position.

Mother.That sounds all very fine, but what do you propose to do about me?

Lise.You’re not the point, your daughter is! Can’t you think about her for a single minute without immediately thinking of yourself?

Mother.Ah, but, mind you, when I think of myself I think of my daughter at the same time, because she has learned to love her mother.

Lise.I don’t think so. She depends on you because you’ve shut her off from all the rest of the world, and she must have someone to depend on, since you’ve stolen her away from her father.

Mother.What’s that you say?

Lise.That you took the child away from her father when he refused to marry you, because you hadn’t been faithful to him. You then prevented him from seeing his child, and avenged your own misconduct on him and upon your child.

Mother.Helen, don’t you believe a single word of anything that she says —that I should live to see such a day! For a stranger to intrude into my house and insult me in the presence of my own child!

Daughter.[Comes forward.] You have no business to say anything bad about my mother.

Lise.It’s impossible to do otherwise, if I’m to say anything good about my father. Anyway I observe that the conversation is nearly over, so allow me to give you one or two pieces of advice. Get rid of the procuress who finds herself so at home here under the name of Aunt Augusta if you don’t want your daughter’s reputation to be absolutely ruined. That’s tip number one. Further, put in order all your receipts for the money which you had from my father for Helen’s education, because settlement day’s precious near. That’s tip number two. And now for an extra tip. Leave off persecuting your daughter with your company in the street and, above all, at the theater, because if you don’t she’s barred from any engagement; and then you’ll go about trying to sell her favors, just as, up to the present, you’ve been trying to buy back your lost respectability at the expense of her father.

Mother.[Sits, crushed.]

Daughter.[To LISE.] Leave this house. You find nothing sacred, not even motherhood.

Lise.A sacred motherhood, I must say!

Daughter.It seems now as though you’ve only come into this house to destroy us, and not for a single minute to put matters right.

Lise.Yes, I did! I came here to—to put right the good name of my father, who was perfectly guiltless—as guiltless as that incendiary whose house had been set on fire. I came also to put you right, you who’ve been the victim of a woman whose one and only chance of rehabilitation is by retiring to a place where she won’t be disturbed by anybody, and where she on her side won’t disturb anybody’s peace. That’s why I came. I have done my duty. Good-bye.

Mother.Miss Lise—don’t go before I’ve said one thing—you came here, apart from all the other tomfoolery, to invite Helen out to your place.

Lise.Yes. She was to meet the director of the Imperial Theater, who takes quite an interest in her.

Mother.What’s that? The director? And you’ve never mentioned a word about it. Yes—Helen may go— alone. Yes, without me!

Daughter.[Makes a gesture.]

Lise.Well, after all, it was only human nature that you should hare carried on like that. Helen, you must come, do you see?

Daughter.Yes, but now I don’t want to any more.

Mother.What are you talking about?

Daughter.No, I’m not fitted for society. I shall never feel comfortable anywhere where my mother is despised.

Mother.Stuff and nonsense! You surely ain’t going to go and cut your own throat? Now just you go and dress so as to look all right!

Daughter.No, I can’t, mother. I can’t leave you now that I know everything. I shall never have another happy hour. I can never believe in anything again.

Lise.[To MOTHER.] Now you shall reap what you have sown— if one day a man comes and makes your daughter his bride, then you’ll be alone in your old age, and then you’ll have time to be sorry for your foolishness. Good-bye. [Goes and kisses HELEN’S forehead.] Goodbye, sister.

Daughter.Good-bye.

Lise.Look me in the face and try and seem as though you had some hope in life.

Daughter.I can’t. I can’t thank you either for your good-will, for you have given me more pain than you know—you woke me with a shake when I lay in the sunshine by a woodland precipice and slept.

Lise.Give me another chance, and I’ll wake you with songs and flowers. Good night. Sleep well. [Exit.]

Previous characters. Later the DRESSER.

Mother.An angel of light in white garments, T suppose! No! She’s a devil, a regular devil! And you! How silly you’ve been behaving! What madness next, I wonder! Playing the sensitive when other people’s hides are so thick.

Daughter.To think of your being able to tell me all those untruths. Deceiving me so that I talked thus about my father during so many years.

Mother.Oh, come on! It’s no good crying over spilt milk.

Daughter.And then again, Aunt Augusta!

Mother.Stop it. Aunt Augusta is a most excellent woman, to whom you are under a great obligation.

Daughter.That’s not true either—it was my father, I’m sure, who had me educated.

Mother.Well, yes, it was, but I too have to live. You’re so petty! And you’re vindictive as well. Can’t you forget a little taradiddle like that? Hello!Augusta’s turned up already. Come along, now let us humble folks amuse ourselves as best as we can.

Previous Characters. DRESSER.

Dresser.Yes, it was he right enough. You see, I’d guessed quite right.

Mother.Oh, well, don’t let’s bother about the blackguard.

Daughter.Don’t speak like that, mother; it’s not a bit true!

Dresser.What’s not true?

Daughter.Come along. We’ll play cards. I can’t pull down the wall which you’ve taken so many years to build up. Come along then. [She sits down at the card table and begins to shuffle the cards.]

Mother.Well, you’ve come to your senses at last, my gal.

[Curtain.]

MR. X., an archaeologist

MR. Y., a traveler from America

MALMO, aged men.

Simple room in the country; door and windows at the back looking out on a landscape. In the middle of the floor a big dining table with books, writing materials, archaeological implements on one side; microscope, etymological cabinet, flask of spirits on the other. On the left a bookcase; otherwise the furniture of the house of a rich peasant.