August Strindberg: Miss Julie and Other Plays

YOUSEF, her lover.

GUIMARD, a lieutenant in the Zouaves.

In Algeria, at the present time.

An Arabian marabout (cemetery) with a sarcophagus on the ground. Praying mats here and there; on the right a charnel-house. Door at the back with porch and curtains; window apertures in the wall at the back. Small sand hillocks here and there on the grcrund; an uprooted aloe; a palm-tree; a heap of esparto grass.

[BISKRA enters with a burnous hood drawn down over her face, and a guitar on her back, throws herself down on a mat end then prays with arms crossed over her breast. The wind blows outside.]

Biskra.La ilaha all allah.

Yousef.[In hatft.] The Simoon comes. Where is the Frank?

Biskra.He will be here in a little space.

Yousef.Why dost thou not slay him at once?

Biskra.Nay, because he is going to do that himself. If I were to do it the whites would kill the whole of our tribe, for they know that I was the guide Ali—though they do not know that I am the maid Biskra.

Yousef.He is to do it himself? How is that to be?

Biskra.Dost not know the Simoon? Thou knowest that Simoon shrivels up the brains of the whites like dates, and makes them stricken with panic, so that life is hateful to them and they fly out into the great unknown.

Yousef.I have heard such things, and in the last combat six Franks lifted their hands against themselves. For snow has fallen on the mountains and in half-an-hour all may be over. Biskra, canst thou hate?

Biskra.Thou askest if I can hate? My hate is boundless as the waste, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love. Rvery hour of joy they have stolen from me since they killed Ali has gathered together like poison in a viper’s fangs, and what Simoon does not wreak that will I wreak myself.

Yousef.That is well spoken, Biskra, and thou shalt do as thou hast said. My hate has withered like grass in the autumn since my eyes have had sight of thee. Take strength from me and be the arrow from my bow.

Biskra.Embrace me, Yousef; embrace me.

Yousef.Not here in the holy presence; not now—later, afterward—when thou shalt have earned thy reward.

Biskra.Noble sheikh! Noble man!

Yousef.Yes, the maid that shall bear my child under her heart must show herself worthy of the honor.

Biskra.I—none other—shall bear the child of Yousef. I, Biskra, the despised one, the ill-favored one, but the strong one.

Yousef.So be it. Now I will go down and sleep by the fountain. Need I to teach thee the secret craft which thou didst learn from the great Marabout Siddi sheikh, and which thou didst practice in the market-place since thou wast a child?

Biskra.That need’st thou not dot I know all the secret craft that one needs to frighten the life out of a craven Frank; the cowards who crawl before their enemies and send leaden pellets before them. I know all— even to speaking with the belly. And what my craft fails to wreak, that shall the sun do, for the sun is on the side of Yousef and of Biskra.

Yousef.The sun is the Moslem’s friend, but today is it passing great. Thou mayst get scorched, maid. Take first a drink of water, for I can see thy hands are parched. [He lifts up a mat and stoops down to a bowl of water, which he hands to BISKRA.]

Biskra.[Lifts the bowl to her mouth.] And my eyes begin to see red—my lungs to dry up. I hear—I hear—see thou, the sands run already through the roof, and there sings the string of the guitar. Simoon is here! But the Frank is not.

Yousef.Come down here, Biskra, and let the Frank kill himself.

Biskra.Hell first and death afterward. Don’t thou think that I flinch? [Pours out the water on a heap of sand.] I shall water the sand, that my revenge may grow! And I shall parch my heart. Grow, hate! Burn, sun! Blow, wind!

Yousef.Hail to thee, mother of the son of Yousef, for thou shalt bear Yousef’s son, the Avenger, even thou. [The wind increases, the curtain in front of the door flaps, a red light illumines the room, sand subsequently passes into gold.]

Biskra.The Frank comes—and Simoon is here! Go!

Yousef.See me again in a half-hour. Here is your sand water. [Points to a sandheap.] Heaven itself will measure out the time of the infidel’s hell.

BISKRA; GUIMARD, pale and staggering, confused, speaks in a faint voice.

Guimard.Simoon is here. What way do you think my men have gone?

Biskra.I guided your men to the left, toward the east. Guimard. To the left toward—the east. Let me see. Now I’ve got the east right, and the west. Put me in a chair and give me some water.

Biskra.[Leads GUIMARD to the sand hillock, and puts him on the ground, with his head on the sand hillack.] Art thou easy thus?

Guimard.[Looks at her.] I’m sitting a little crooked. Put something under my head.

Biskra.[Piles up the sand hillock under his head.] And now hast thou a cushion under thy head.

Guimard.Head? That’s my feet. Isn’t that my feet?

Biskra.Yea, surely.

Guimard.I thought so. Give me a stool, now, under my head.

Biskra.[Drags along an aloe-tree and puts it under GUIMARD’S knees.] There is a stool for thee.

Guimard.And water—water!

Biskra.[Takes the empty bowl, fills it with sand and hands it to GUIMARD.] Drink it while it is cold.

Guimard.[Sips from the bowl.] It is cold, but none the less it does not slake my thirst. I cannot drink. I abhor water, take it away.

Biskra.That’s the dog that bit thee.

Guimard.What dog? I have never been bitten by any dog.

Biskra.Simoon has shrivelled up thy memory. Beware of the phantoms of Simoon. Thou rememberest the mad wind-hound that bit thee on thy last hunt but one in Bab-el-Oued.

Guimard.I was hunting in Bab-el-Oued! That is right. Was it a bran-colored one?

Biskra.A bitch! Yes, see now! And she bit thee in the calf. Dost thou not feel the wound smarting?

Guimard.[Feels himself on his calf and pricks himself with the aloe.] Yes, I feel it. Water! Water!

Biskra.[Hands him the bowl of sand.] Drink, drink!

Guimard.No, I cannot! Blessed Virgin, Mother of God! I am panic-stricken!

Biskra.Be not afraid! I will cure thee and drive out the devils with the power of my music. Listen.

Guimard.[Shrieks.] Ah! Ah! No music! I cannot bear it. And what good does it do me?

Biskra.Music tames the treacherous spirit of the serpent. Dost thou think it is not equal to a mad dog’s bite? [Singing with guitar.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon! Simoon!

Yousef.[Underground.] Simoon! Simoon!

Guimard.What is that you were singing? Ah!

Biskra.Have I been singing? Look here, thou, now I put a palm leaf in my mouth. [Takes a palm leaf between her teeth. Song above.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra.

Yousef.[Beneath the ground.] Simoon, Simoon.

Guimard.What hellish nightmare is this?

Biskra.I am singing now. [BISKRA and YOUSEF together.] Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra, Biskra. Simoon.