August Strindberg: Miss Julie and Other Plays

Mr. Y.Who is it?

Mr. X.I won’t mention his name. However, I always used to feed at the same place many years ago, and I met then, over the hors d’ceuzres, a little blond man with pale, agonized eyes. He had an extraordinary power of being in the front of any crush without either pushing or being pushed; he could take a slice of bread from yards away even though he stood by the door; he always seemed happy to be with people, and when he found a friend he would follow him about with hysterical enthusiasm, embrace him and slap him on his back as though he hadn’t met a human being for years and years. If anyone trampled on him, it would be as though he begged his pardon for being in the way. During the two years I kept on seeing him I amused myself by guessing his profession and character, but I never asked him what he was, because I didn’t want to know, because my hobby would have gone bust as soon as I did. This man had the same characteristic as you—that of being nondescript. Sometimes I’d put him down as a grammar school usher, a subaltern, a chemist, a clerk of the peace, or one of the secret police, and he seemed, like you, to be made up of two heterogeneous pieces which fitted in front but not at the back.

One day it happened I read in the papers about a big check forgery by a well-known civil servant. I then knew that my nondescript friend had been the partner of the forger’s brother, and that his name was Stroman, and in that way I found out that the aforesaid Stroman had previously carried on business as a lending library, but that he was not a police court reporter on a big daily. But how could I establish any connection between the forgery, the police and his nondescript demeanor? I don’t know, but when I asked a friend if Stroman was punished he neither answered no nor yes; he simply didn’t know. [Pause.]

Mr. Y.Well? Was he punished?

Mr. X.No, he went scot-free. [Pause.]

Mr. Y.Don’t you think that may have been why the police had such a morbid fascination for him and why he was so frightened of knocking up against his fellow-men?

Mr. X.Yes.

Mr. Y.Do you still keep up with him?

Mr. X.No; and I don’t wish to. [Pause.] Would you have still kept up with him if he had been—convicted?

Mr. Y.Yes—like a shot. [Mr. Y. gets up and walks up and down.]

Mr. X.Sit still—why can’t you sit still?

Mr. Y.Where did you get your broad views of human conduct? Are you a Christian?

Mr. X.No—can’t you see that? [Mr. Y. Facial expression.] The Christian asks for forgiveness as I ask for punishment—to restore the balance, or whatever you call it. And you, my friend, who’ve done your little stretch, ought to know that quite well.

Mr. Y.[Is nervous and stunned. Looking at Mr. X. first with wild hate and then with wonder and admiration.] How— can —you—know—that?

Mr. X.I can see it.

Mr. Y.How? How can you see it?

Mr. X.I have taught myself. It’s just a science, like so many others. But now we won’t talk about it any more. [Looks at his watch, takes out a paper for signature, dips his pen in the ink and hands it to MR. Y.] I must think of my own business troubles. Would you mind witnessing my signature on this bill which I shall present to the Malmo bank to-morrow when I follow you?

Mr. Y.I don’t intend to travel by Malmo.

Mr. X.No?

Mr. Y.No.

Mr. X.But at all events you can witness my signature?

Mr. Y.No, I never put my name to a piece of paper.

Mr. X.Again—that’s the fifth time you’ve refused to sign your name. The first time was on a post-receipt—that was when I first began to observe you; now I notice that you are frightened of pen and ink. You haven’t sent off one letter since we’ve been here; only a single letter-card, and that you wrote in pencil. Do you understand now how I worked out your lapse? Again, that’s the seventh time you refused to accompany me to Malmo, though you haven’t been there at all this time. And all the time you’ve come here from America simply to see Malmo. And every morning you go half-a-mile southward to the windmills just so as to see the roofs of—

Malmo. And you stand there, my friend, by the right window, and look out through the third pane of glass on the left counting from the bottom, so that you get a view of the spires of the castle and the chimney of the prison. So you see now it’s not a case of my being so smart, but of your being so dense.

Mr. Y.Now you despise me?

Mr. X.No.

Mr. Y.Yes, you do; you must do so.

Mr. X.No. See, here’s my hand on it. [Mr. Y. kisses the outstretched hand. Mr. X. takes back his hand.] What bestial fawning!

Mr. Y.Forgive me! but you were the first man, sir, who held out his hand to me after he knew

Mr. X.And now you start calling me “Sir.” It appalls me that, after you’ve served your sentence, you don’t feel you can hold your head up, and start with a clean sheet, on the level, just as good as anybody else. Will you tell me all about it? Will you?

Mr. Y.[Wriggles.] Yes; but you won’t believe what I tell you. I’ll tell you about it, and you’ll see that I’m not just an ordinary criminal, and you’ll be convinced that my fall took place, as one says, against my will. [Wriggles.] Just as though it came of itself—spontaneously—without free will and as though one couldn’t help it. Let me open the door a little. I think the thunder has passed over.

Mr. X.If you wouldn’t mind.

Mr. Y.[Opens the door, then sits on the table and tells his story with frigid enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and affected intonation.] Yes, do you see, I was a student at Lind, and once I wanted a loan from the bank. I had no serious debts, and my governor had a little property, but not much, you know. In the meanwhile I had sent the bill to another man to back, and contrary to all my expectations I got it back with a refusal. For a whole hour I sat stupefied by the blow; you see, it was a most unpleasant surprise, most unpleasant. The document happened to be lying on the table. Close by was the letter. My eyes wandered first over the fatal lines that contained my doom—as a matter of fact it wasn’t my death sentence, because I could quite easily have got somebody else to back it, as a matter of fact as many people as I wanted, but, as I said, it was very unpleasant as things stood, and as I was sitting there in my innocence my gaze became gradually riveted on that signature on the letter, which, if only in its right place, would perhaps have saved my future. The signature was just a piece of ordinary handwriting—you know how, when you’re thinking about something else, you can sit down and fill a piece of blotting paper with absolute nonsense. I had a pen in my hand. [Takes up the pen.] See here, and, just like this, it began to move. I’m not going to contend that there was anything mystical—anything spiritualistic—at the back of it, because I don’t believe in all that stuff, it was simply a purely mechanical thoughtless process, as I sat and copied that pretty signature time after time—of course without any intention of making any advantage out of it. When the sheet had been covered I had acquired a complete proficiency in signing the name. [Throws the pen quickly away.] And then I forgot all about it. All night I slept deeply and heavily, and when I woke up I felt as though I had dreamed, but could not remember my dream; at times it seemed as though a door were ajar and I saw the writing table with a bill on it just like mine, and when I got up I went straight up to that table just as though I had after mature consideration made the irrevocable resolution to write the name on that blank piece of paper. All thought of consequences—of risks—had vanished; there was no hesitation— it was just as though I was fulfilling a solemn duty—and I wrote. [Springs.] What could it have been?