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PLAYS BI
AUGUST STRINDBERG
SECOND SERIES

PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

PLAYS. FIRST SERIES: The Dream
Play, The Link, The Dance of Death —
Part I and Part II ....... . $1.50 net
PLAYS. SECOND SERIES: There are
Crimes and Crimes, Miss Julia, The
Stronger, Creditors, Pariah $1.50 net; postage extra

creditors, pariah .... 75 cents net
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THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES 75 cents net

PLAYS

BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
SECOND SERIES
THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES V*""
MISS JULIA ^
\THE STRONGER -"-"
\ CREDITORS
\ PARIAH
TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BT
EDWIN BJORKMAN
\' h ..
AUTHORIZED EDITION ¦¦¦¦¦¦" ^ ^¦¦^,'",.!', ¦'•¦"' ;- ¦'¦
'VXX.;
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1913

COPYHIGHT, 1913, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published February, 1913

CONTENTS

PAGE

Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes" . . 3
There Are Crimes and Crimes  9
Introduction to "Miss Julia"  89
Author's Preface  96
Miss Julia  113
Introduction to "The Stronger"  167
The Stronger  169
Introduction to "Creditors"  179
Creditors  183
Introduction to "Pariah"  241
Pariah  245

THERE ARE CRIMES
AND CRIMES

INTRODUCTION

Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There
Are Crimes and Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he pro
duced three of his finest historical dramas: "The Saga of
the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," and "Eric XIV." Just
before, he had finished "Advent," which he described as
"A Mystery," and which was published together with
"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of
"In a Higher Court." Back of these dramas lay his
strange confessional works, "Inferno" and "Legends," and
the first two parts of his autobiographical dream-play,
"Toward Damascus" — all of which were finished between
May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of 1898. And
back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, when, at
Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the trans
mutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit
was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for
the heaven promised by the great mystics of the past.
"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded
as his first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the pre
ceding works were at once the record and closing chord.
When, in 1909, he issued "The Author," being a long with
held fourth part of his first autobiographical series, "The
Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed to it an analytical summary of
the entire body of his work. Opposite the works from 1897-8
appears in this summary the following passage: "The great
crisis at the age of fifty; revolutions in the life of the soul,
desert wanderings, Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But
concerning "There Are Crimes and Crimes" and the three
3

4 INTRODUCTION
historical dramas from the same year he writes triumphantly:
"Light after darkness; new productivity, with recovered
Faith, Hope and Love — and with full, rock-firm Certitude."
In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or
"Intoxication," which indicates the part played by the cham
pagne in the plunge of Maurice from the pinnacles of success
to the depths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more
come to see that a moderation verging closely on asceticism
is wise for most men and essential to the man of genius who
wants to fulfil his divine mission. And he does not scorn to
press home even this comparatively humlwe lesson with the
naive directness and fiery zeal which form such conspicuous
features of all his work.
But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint
publication we have a better clue to what the author himself
undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his
work — its religious tendency. The "higher court," in
which are tried the crimes of Maurice, Adolphe, and Henri-
ette, is, of course, the highest one that man can imagine.
And the crimes of which they have all become guilty are
those which, as Adolphe remarks, "are not mentioned in the
criminal code"— tin a word, crimes against the spirit, against
the impalpable power that moves us, against God. The
play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual
change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the
waters of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and
impelled. f
There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic
revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual ord(es
— for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress Js
implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all
in our growing modern conviction that any vital faith is
better than none at all. One of the currents in question re-

INTRODUCTION 5
fers to the means rather than the end, to the road rather than
the goal. It brings us back to those uncanny soul-adven
tures by which Strindberg himself won his way to the "full,
rock-firm Certitude" of which the play in its entirety is the
first tangible expression. The elements entering into this
current are not only mystical, but occult. They are derived
in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that picturesque
French dreamer who signs himself " Sar Peladan ' ' ; but mostly
they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in
moments of abnormal tension.
What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris
in 1895, and what he later described with such bewildering
exactitude in his "Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here
presented in dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to
suit the needs of the stage and the calmer mood of the author.
Coincidence is law. It is the finger-point of Providence, the
signal to man that he must beware. Mystery is the gospel:
the secret knitting of man to man, of fact to fact, deep be
neath the surface of visible and audible existence. Few
writers could take us into such a realm of probable impossi
bilities and possible improbabilities without losing all claim
to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thus ventured to
our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be explained
only by the presence in the play of that second, parallel
current of thought and feeling.
This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the sur
face is fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm
Certitude" to which I have already referred. And nothing
will bring us nearer to it than Strindberg's own confession of
faith, given in his "Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two
years ago. In that pamphlet there is a chapter headed "Re
ligion," in which occurs this passage: "Since 1896 I have
been calling myself a Christian. I am not a Catholic, and

6 INTRODUCTION
have never been, but during a stay of seven years in Catholic
countries and among Catholic relatives, I discovered that the
difference between Catholic and Protestant tenets is either
none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that the division
which once occurred was merely political or else concerned
with theological problems not fundamentally germane to the
religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain,
but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but
come nearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible
Christianity internally and privately to tame my somewhat
decivilized nature — decivilised by that veterinary philosophy
and animal science (Darwinism) in which, as student at the
university, I was reared. And I assure my fellow-beings
that they have no right to complain because, according to
my ability, I practise the Christian teachings. For only
through religion, or the hope of something better, and the
recognition of the innermost meaning of life as that of an
ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be possible
to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation."
Here, as alsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's re
ligiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to morality.
At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a moral
ist — a man passionately craving to know what is right and
to do it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his
creative career, this fundamental tendency was in part ob
scured, and he engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity
known as "truth for truth's own sake." One of the chief
marks of his final and mystical period is his greater courage
to "be himself" in this respect — and this means necessarily
a return, or an advance, to a position wliich the late William
James undoubtedly would have acknowledged as "prag
matic." To combat the assertion of over-developed indi
vidualism that we are ends in ourselves, that we have eer-

INTRODUCTION 7
tain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure and happiness
merely because we happen to appear here in human shape,
this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his later
works. As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our
lives must be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may
be another life. He calls it God. And the code of service
he finds in the tenets of all the Christian churches, but prin
cipally in the Commandments. The plain and primitive
virtues, the faith that implies little more than square dealing
between man and man — these figure foremost in Strindberg's
ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking like ours, such an
outlook would seem to have small chance of popularity, but
that it embodies just what the time most needs is, perhaps,
made evident by the reception which the public almost in
variably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is
staged. With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called
realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of
methods generally held superseded — such as the casual intro
duction of characters at whatever moment they happen to be
needed on the stage — it has, from the start, been among the
most frequently played and most enthusiastically received
of Strindberg's later dramas. At Stockholm it was first
taken up by the Royal Dramatic Theatre, and was later
seen on the tiny stage of the Intimate Theatre, then de
voted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It was one of the
earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still experi
menting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also
been given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna.
Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a
word of explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris.
Not only the scenery, but the people and the circumstances

8 INTRODUCTION
are French. Yet he has made no attempt whatever to make
the dialogue reflect French manners of speaking or ways of
thinking. As he has given it to us, the play is French only
in its most superficial aspect, in its setting — and this setting
he has chosen simply because he needed a certain machinery
offered him by the Catholic, but not by the Protestant,
churches. The rest of the play is purely human in its note
and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I have
retained the French names and titles, but have otherwise
striven to bring everything as close as possible to our own
modes of expression. Should apparent incongruities result
from this manner of treatment, I think they will disappear
if only the reader will try to remember that the characters
of the play move in an existence cunningly woven by the
author out of scraps of ephemeral reality in order that he
may show us the mirage of a more enduring one.

THERE ARE
CRIMES AND CRIMES

A COMEDY 1899

CHARACTERS
Maurice, a playwright
Jeanne, his mistress
Marion, their daughter, five years old
Adolphe, a painter
Henriette, his mistress
Emile, a workman, brother of Jeanne
Madame Catherine
The Abbe
A Watchman
A Head Waiter
A Commissaire
Two Detectives
A Waiter
A Guard
A Servant Gird
Act I, Scene 1. The Cemetery
2. The Cremerie
Act II, Scene 1. The Auberge Des Adrets
2. The Bois De Boulogne
Act III, Scene 1. The Cremerie
2. The Auberge Des Adrets
Act IV, Scene 1. The Luxembourg Gardens
2. The Cremerie
All the scenes are laid in Paris

THERE ARE
CRIMES AND CRIMES
ACT I
FIRST SCENE
The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery
at Paris. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone
crosses on which are inscribed "0 Crux! Ave Spes Unical"
and the ruins of a wind-mill covered with ivy.
A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and mutter
ing prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.
Jeanne is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.
Marion is playing with some withered flowers picked from a
rubbish heap on the ground.
The Abbe is reading his breviary while walking along the
further end of the avenue.
Watchman. [Enters and goes up to Jeanne] Look here,
this is no playground.
Jeanne. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody
who'll soon be here 
Watchman. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any
flowers. Jeanne. [To Marion] Drop the flowers, dear.
Abbe. [Comes forward and is saluted by the Watchman]
Can't the child play with the flowers that have been thrown
away? Watchman. The regulations don't permit anybody to
touch even the flowers that have been thrown away, because
11

12 THEREARECRIMES acti
it's believed they may spread infection — which I don't know
if it's true.
Abbe. [To Marion] In that case we have to obey, of
course. What's your name, my little girl?
Marion. My name is Marion.
Abbe. And who is your father?
Marion begins to bite one of her fingers and does not
answer.
Abbe. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention
— I was just talking to keep the little one quiet.
The Watchman has gone out.
Jeanne. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish
you would say something to quiet me also. I feel very much
disturbed after having waited here two hours.
Abbe. Two hours — for him! How these human beings
torture each other! O Crux! Ave spes unica!
Jeanne. What do they mean, those words you read all
around here?
Abbe. They mean: O cross, our only hope!
Jeanne. Is it the only one?
Abbe. The only certain one.
Jeanne. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father.
Abbe. May I ask why?
Jeanne. You have already guessed it. When he lets the
woman and the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the
end is not far off.
Abbe. And when he has left you, what then?
Jeanne. Then we have to go into the river.
Abbe. Oh, no, no!
Jeanne. Yes, yes!
Marion. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry.
Jeanne. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home.
Abbe. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil.

acti AND CRIMES 13
Jeanne. What is that woman doing at the grave over
there? Abbe. She seems to be talking to the dead.
Jeanne. But you cannot do that?
Abbe. She seems to know how.
Jeanne. This would mean that the end of life is not the
end of our misery?
Abbe. And you don't know it?
Jeanne. Where can I find out?
Abbe. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to
learn about this well-known matter, you can look me up in
Our Lady's Chapel at the Church of St. Germain — Here
comes the one you are waiting for, I guess.
Jeanne. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know
him. Abbe. [To Marion] Good-bye, little Marion! May God
take care of you! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Ger
main des Pres.
Emile. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you
doing here?
Jeanne. I am waiting for Maurice.
Emile. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for
I saw him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast
with some friends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion.
Jeanne. Ladies also?
Emile. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He
writes plays, and his latest one has its first performance
to-night. I suppose he had with him some of the actresses.
Jeanne. Did he recognise you?
Emile. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as
well. I know my place as a workman, and I don't care for
any condescension from those that are above me.
Jeanne. But if he leaves us without anything to live on?

14 THEREARECRIMES acti
Emile. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose
I shall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect any
thing of the kind, do you — seeing that he is fond of you and
very much attached to the child?
Jeanne. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something
dreadful is in store for me.
Emile. Has he promised to marry you?
Jeanne. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out
hopes. Emile. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the
start: don't hope for anything, for those above us don't
marry downward.
Jeanne. But such things have happened.
Emile. Yes, they have happened. But would you feel at
home in his world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even
understand what they were talking of. Now and then I take
my meals where he is eating — out in the kitchen is my place,
of course — and I don't make out a word of what they say.
Jeanne. So you take your meals at that place?
Emile. Yes, in the kitchen.
Jeanne. And think of it, he has never asked me to come
with him.
Emile. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he
has some respect for the mother of his child. The women
over there are a queer lot.
Jeanne. Is that so?
Emile. But Maurice never pays any attention to the
women. There is something square about that fellow.
Jeanne. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as
there is a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer.
Emile. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you
hard up for money?
Jeanne. No, nothing of that kind.

acti AND CRIMES 15
Emile. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet — Look!
Over there! There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye,
little girl.
Jeanne. Is he coming? Yes, that's him.
Emile. Don't make him mad now — with your jealousy,
Jeanne! [Goes out.
Jeanne. No, I won't.
Maurice enters.
Marion. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms]
Papa, papa!
Maurice. My little girl ! [Greets Jeanne] Can you forgive
me, Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long?
Jeanne. Of course I can.
Maurice. But say it in such a way that I can hear that
you are forgiving me.
Jeanne. Come here and let me whisper it to you.
Maurice goes up close to her.
Jeanne kisses him on the cheek.
Maurice. I didn't hear.
Jeanne kisses him on the mouth.
Maurice. Now I heard ! Well — you know, I suppose that
this is the day that will settle my fate? My play is on for
to-night, and there is every chance that it will succeed — or
fail. Jeanne. I'll make sure of success by praying for you.
Maurice. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least
do no harm — Look over there, down there in the valley,
where the haze is thickest: there lies Paris. To-day Paris
doesn't know who Maurice is, but it is going to know within
twenty-four hours. The haze, which has kept me obscured
for thirty years, will vanish before my breath, and I shall
become visible, I shall assume definite shape and begin to be
somebody. My enemies — which means all who would like

16 THEREARECRIMES acti
to do what I have done — will be writhing in pains that shall
be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I have
suffered. Jeanne. Don't talk that way, don't!
Maurice. But that's the way it is.
Jeanne. Yes, but don't speak of it — And then?
Maurice. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and
Marion will bear the name I have made famous.
Jeanne. You love me then?
Maurice. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps
Marion a little more.
Jeanne. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but
not of her.
Maurice. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward
you? Jeanne. I don't know, but I am afraid of something,
afraid of something terrible 
Maurice. You are tired out and depressed by your long
wait, which once more I ask you to forgive. What have you
to be afraid of?
Jeanne. The unexpected: that which you may foresee
without having any particular reason to do so.
Maurice. But I foresee only success, and I have particular
reasons for doing so: the keen instincts of the management
and their knowledge of the public, not to speak of their per
sonal acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be
in good spirits 
Jeanne. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an
Abbe here a while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My
faith — which you haven't destroyed, but just covered up,
as when you put chalk on a window to clean it — I couldn't
lay hold on it for that reason, but this old man just passed
his. hand over the chalk, and the light came through, and it

acti AND CRIMES 17
was possible again to see that the people within were at
home — To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain.
Maurice. Now I am getting scared.
Jeanne. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom.
Maurice. God? What is that? Who is he?
Jeanne. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength
to your manhood. And it is he who will carry us through
the terrors that lie ahead of us.
Maurice. What is lying ahead of us? What do you
know? Where have you learned of this? This thing that I
don't know?
Jeanne. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen
nothing, heard nothing. But during these two dreadful
hours I have experienced such an infinity of pain that I am
ready for the worst.
Marion. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am
hungry. Maurice. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling.
[Takes her into his arms.
Marion. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa!
Jeanne. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye
then, Maurice. And good luck to you!
Maurice. [To Marion] How did I hurt you? Doesn't
my little girl know that I always want to be nice to her?
Marion. If you are nice, you'll come home with us.
Maurice. [To Jeanne] When I hear the child talk like
that, you know, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But
then reason and duty protest — Good-bye, my dear little
girl! [He kisses the child, who puts her arms around his neck.
Jeanne. When do we meet again?
Maurice. We'll meet to-morrow, dear. And then we'll
never part again.
Jeanne. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again ! [She

18 THEREARECRIMES acti
makes the sign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect
you! Maurice. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved
Jeanne! Jeanne and Marion go toward the right; Maurice
toward the left. Both turn around simultaneously and
throw kisses at each other.
Maurice. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself.
I am always forgetting you, and you are the last one to re
mind me of it. Here are the tickets for to-night.
Jeanne. Thank you, dear, but — you have to take up your
post of duty alone, and so I have to take up mine — with
Marion. Maurice. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of
your heart. Yes, I am sure no other woman would have
sacrificed a pleasure to serve her husband — I must have
my hands free to-night, and there is no place for women and
children on the battle-field — and this you understood!
Jeanne. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like my
self, and then you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll
see that I can be as forgetful as you — I have bought you a
tie and a pair of gloves which I thought you might wear for
my sake on your day of honour.
Maurice. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear.
Jeanne. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your
hair fixed, as you do all the time. I want you to be good-
looking, so that others will like you too.
Maurice. There is no jealousy in you!
Jeanne. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts
spring from it.
Maurice. Just now I feel as if I could give up this even
ing's victory — for I am going to win 
Jeanne. Hush, hush!

acti AND CRIMES 19
Maurice. And go home with you instead.
Jeanne. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny
is waiting for you.
Maurice. Good-bye then! And may that happen wliich
must happen! [Goes out.
Jeanne. [Alone with Marion] O Crux! Ave spes unica!
Curtain.

SECOND SCENE
The Crimerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed
an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vege
tables, fruit, preserves, etc. In the background is a door
leading to the kitchen, where workmen are taking their
meals. At the other end of the kitchen can be seen a door
leading out to a garden. On the left, in the background,
stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are
shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the right, a long
table with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another
table is placed parallel to the first further out on the floor.
Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. The walls
are covered with oil-paintings.
Mme. Catherine is sitting at the counter.
Maurice stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is
smoking a cigarette.
Mme. Catherine. So it's to-night the great event comes
off, Monsieur Maurice?
Maurice. Yes, to-night.
Mme. Catherine. Do you feel upset?
Maurice. Cool as a cucumber.
Mme. Catherine. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you

20 THEREARECRIMES acti
have deserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to
fight against such difficulties as yours.
Maurice. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have
been very kind to me, and without your help I should proba
bly have been down and out by this time.
Mme. Catherine. Don't let us talk of that now. I help
along where I see hard work and the right kind of will, but I
don't want to be exploited — Can we trust you to come
back here after the play and let us drink a glass with you?
Maurice. Yes, you can — of course, you can, as I have
already promised you.
Henriette enters from the right.
Maurice turns around, raises his hat, and stares at
Henriette, who looks him over carefully.
Henriette. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet?
Mme. Catherine. No, madame. But he'll soon be here
now. Won't you sit down?
Henriette. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him out
side. [Goes out. '
Maurice. Who — was — that?
Mme. Catherine. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend.
Maurice. Was — that — her?
Mme. Catherine. Have you never seen her before?
Maurice. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if
he was afraid I might take her away from him.
Mme. Catherine. Ha-ha!— Well, how did you think she
looked? Maurice. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell—
I didn't see her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into
my arms at once and come so close to me that I couldn't
make out her features at all. And she left her impression
on the air behind her. I can still see her standing there.
[He goes toward the door and makes a gesture as if putting his

acti ANDCRIMES 21
arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a gesture as if he had
pricked his finger] There are pins in her waist. She is of the
kind that stings!
Mme. Catherine. Oh, you are crazy, you with your
ladies !
Maurice. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do
you know, Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes
back, or else, or else — Oh, that woman is horrible!
Mme. Catherine. Are you afraid?
Maurice. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some
others. Mme. Catherine. Well, go then.
Maurice. She seemed to suck herself out through the
door, and in her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me
along — Yes, you may laugh, but can't you see that the
palm over there on the buffet is still shaking? She's the
very devil of a woman!
Mme. Catherine. Oh, get out of here, man, before you
lose all your reason.
Maurice. I want to go, but I cannot — Do you believe
in fate, Madame Catherine?
Mme. Catherine. No, I believe in a good God, who pro
tects us against evil powers if we ask Him in the right way.
Maurice. So there are evil powers after all! I think I
can hear them in the hallway now.
Mme. Catherine. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the
clerk tears off a piece of linen for you. Get away now —
through the kitchen.
Maurice rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps
into Emile.
Emile. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.
Adolphe. [Comes in first; after him Henriette] Why,
there's Maurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady

22 THEREARECRIMES acti
here to my oldest and best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette —
Monsieur Maurice.
Maurice. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you.
Henriette. We have seen each other before.
Adolphe. Is that so? When, if I may ask?
Maurice. A moment ago. Right here.
Adolphe. 0-oh! — But now you must stay and have a
chat with us.
Maurice. [After a glance at Mme. Catherine] If I only
had time.
Adolphe. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here
very long.
Henriette. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business.
Maurice. The only business we have is so bad that we
don't want to talk of it.
Henriette. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the
hat away from Maurice and hangs it up] Now be nice, and
let me become acquainted with the great author.
Mme. Catherine signals to Maurice, who doesn't no
tice her.
Adolphe. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him.
[They seat themselves at one of the tables.
Henriette. [To Maurice] You certainly have a good
friend in Adolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of
anything but you, and in such a way that I feel myself
rather thrown in the background.
Adolphe. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side
never leaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read
your works, and she is always wanting to know where you
got this and where that. She has been questioning me about
your looks, your age, your tastes. I have, in a word, had
you for breakfast, dinner, and supper. It has almost seemed
as if the three of us were living together.

acti AND CRIMES 23
Maurice. [To Henriette] Heavens, why didn't you come
over here and have a look at this wonder of wonders? Then
your curiosity could have been satisfied in a trice.
Henriette. Adolphe didn't want it.
Adolphe holes embarrassed.
Henriette. Not that he was jealous 
Maurice. And why should he be, when he knows that
my feelings are tied up elsewhere?
Henriette. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your
feelings. Maurice. I can't understand that, seeing that I am no
torious for my constancy.
Adolphe. Well, it wasn't that— —
Henriette. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because
you have not faced the fiery ordeal 
Adolphe. Oh, you don't know 
Henriette. [Interrupting] — for the world has not yet be
held a faithful man.
Maurice. Then it's going to behold one.
Henriette. Where?
Maurice. Here.
Henriette laughs.
Adolphe. Well, that's going it 
Henriette. [Interrupting him and directing herself con
tinuously to Maurice] Do you think I ever trust my dear
Adolphe more than a month at a time?
Maurice. I have no right to question your lack of con
fidence, but I can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful.
Henriette. You don't need to do so — my tongue is just
running away with me, and I have to take back a lot — not
only for fear of feeling less generous than you, but because it
is the truth. It is a bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly
side of things, and I keep it up although I know better. But

24 THEREARECRIMES acti
if I had a chance to be with you two for some time, then your
company would make me good once more. Pardon me,
Adolphe! [She puts her hand against his cheek.
Adolphe. You are always wrong in your talk and right in
your actions. What you really think — that I don't know.
Henriette. Who does know that kind of thing?
Maurice. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts,
who could then clear himself?
Henriette. Do you also have evil thoughts?
Maurice. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of
cruelties in my dreams.
Henriette. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course —
Just think of it — No, I am ashamed of telling 
Maurice. Go on, go on !
Henriette. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissect
ing the muscles on Adolphe's breast — you see, I am a sculptor
— and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but
helped me instead with the worst places, as he knows more
anatomy than I.
Maurice. Was he dead?
Henriette. No, he was living.
Maurice. But that's horrible! And didn't it make you
suffer? Henriette. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for
I am rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that
so, Adolphe?
Adolphe. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact,
and not the least when animals are concerned.
Maurice. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous
toward the sufferings both of myself and others.
Adolphe. Now he is not telling the truth about himself.
Or what do you say, Madame Catherine?
Mme. Catherine. I don't know of anybody with a softer

acti AND CRIMES 25
heart than Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the
police because I didn't give the goldfish fresh water — those
over there on the buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they
could hear what I am saying.
Maurice. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white
as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any
kind of polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are
concerned — So you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette?
Henriette. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to
do one of you — which has long been my cherished dream — I
hold myself quite capable.
Maurice. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be
long in coming true.
Henriette. But I don't want to fix your features in my
mind until this evening's success is over. Not until then
will you have become what you should be.
Maurice. How sure you are of victory!
Henriette. Yes, it is written on your face that you are
going to win this battle, and I think you must feel that
yourself. Maurice. Why do you think so?
Henriette. Because I can feel it. This morning I was
ill, you know, and now I am well.
Adolphe begins to look depressed.
Maurice. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left
— only one. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe.
Adolphe. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette.
Henriette. But that wouldn't do?
Adolphe. Why not? And I never go to the theatre any
how, as I cannot stand the heat.
Henriette. But you will come and take us home at least
after the show is over.

26 THEREARECRIMES acti
Adolphe. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to
come back here, where we shall all be waiting for him.
Maurice. You can just as well take the trouble of meet
ing us. In fact, I ask, I beg you to do so — And if you
don't want to wait outside the theatre, you can meet us at
the Auberge des Adrets — That's settled then, isn't it?
Adolphe. Wait a little. You have a way of settling
things to suit yourself, before other people have a chance to
consider them.
Maurice. What is there to consider — whether you are to
see your lady home or not?
Adolphe. You never know what may be involved in a
simple act like that, but I have a sort of premonition.
Henriette. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks
while the sun is shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases
him. We can always find our way back here.
Adolphe. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you — model,
you know. Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you,
Maurice. To-morrow you will be out on the right side.
Good-bye, Henriette.
Henriette. Do you really have to go?
Adolphe. I must.
Maurice. Good-bye then. We'll meet later.
Adolphe goes out, saluting Mme. Catherine in passing.
Henriette. Think of it, that we should meet at last!
Maurice. Do you find anything remarkable in that?
Henriette. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe
has done his best to prevent it.
Maurice. Has he?
Henriette. Oh, you must have noticed it.
Maurice. I have noticed it, but why should you mention
it? Henriette. I had to.

acti AND CRIMES 27
Maurice. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted
to run away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting
you and was stopped by a guest who closed the door in front
of me.
Henriette. Why do you tell me about it now?
Maurice. I don't know.
Mme. Catherine upsets a number of glasses and bottles.
Maurice. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's
nothing to be afraid of.
Henriette. Was that meant as a signal or a warning?
Maurice. Probably both.
Henriette. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to
have flagmen ahead of it?
Maurice. And switchmen! The danger is always great
est at the switches.
Henriette. How nasty you can be!
Mme. Catherine. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all.
So far nobody has been kinder than he to those that love
him and trust in him.
Maurice. Sh, sh, sh!
Henriette. [To Maurice] The old lady is rather imperti
nent. Maurice. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care
to do so.
Henriette. With pleasure. This is not the place for me.
I can just feel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.
Maurice. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine.
Mme. Catherine. A moment! May I speak a word to
you, Monsieur Maurice?
Maurice. [Stops unwillingly] What is it?
Mme. Catherine. Don't do it! Don't do it!
Maurice. What?
Mme. Catherine. Don't do it!

28 THEREARECRIMES acti
Maurice. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind,
but she interests me. Or hardly that even.
Mme. Catherine. Don't trust yourself!
Maurice. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.
Curtain.

ACT II
FIRST SCENE
The Auberge des Adrets: a cafe in sixteenth century style, with
a suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are
scattered in corners and nooks. The walls are decorated
with armour and weapons. Along the ledge of the wains
coting stand glasses and jugs.
Maurice and Henriette are in evening dress and sit facing
each other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne
and three filled glasses. The third glass is placed at that
side of the table which is nearest the background, and there
an easy-chair is kept ready for the still missing "third man."
Maurice. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table]
If he doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't
coming at all. And suppose in the meantime we drink with
his ghost. [Touches the third glass with the rim of his own.
Henriette. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe!
Maurice. He won't come.
Henriette. He will come.
Maurice. He won't.
Henriette. He will.
Maurice. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I
can hardly grasp that a new life has begun. Think only:
the manager believes that I may count on no less than one
hundred thousand francs. I'll spend twenty thousand on a
villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty thousand. I
won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I am tired,
29

30 THEREARECRIMES acth
tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever felt
really happy?
Henriette. Never. How does it feel?
Maurice. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot ex
press it, but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of
my enemies. It isn't nice, but that's the way it is.
Henriette. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's ene
mies? Maurice. Why, the victor has to count his killed and
wounded enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory.
Henriette. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that?
Maurice. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pres
sure of other people's heels on your chest for years, it must be
pleasant to shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at
last. Henriette. Don't you find it strange that you are sitting
here, alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown
to you — and on an evening like this, when you ought to have
a craving to show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the
people, on the boulevards, in the big restaurants?
Maurice. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to
be here, and your company is all I care for.
Henriette. You don't look very hilarious.
Maurice. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep
a little. Henriette. What is the meaning of that?
Maurice. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness
and waiting for misfortune to appear.
Henriette. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing
anyhow? Maurice. I miss the only thing that gives value to life.
Henriette. So you love her no longer then?
Maurice. Not in the way I understand love. Do you

acth ANDCRIMES 31
think she has read my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh,
she is so good, so self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go
out with me for a night's fun she would regard as sinful.
Once I treated her to champagne, you know, and instead of
feeling happy over it, she picked up the wine list to see what
it cost. And when she read the price, she wept — wept be
cause Marion was in need of new stockings. It is beautiful,
of course: it is touching, if you please. But I can get no
pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasure before
life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, but
now, now — life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve]
Now begins a new day, a new era!
Henriette. Adolphe is not coming.
Maurice. No, now he won't come. And now it is too
late to go back to the Cremerie.
Henriette. But they are waiting for you.
Maurice. Let them wait. They have made me promise
to come, and I take back my promise. Are you longing to
go there?
Henriette. On the contrary !
Maurice. Will you keep me company then?
Henriette. With pleasure, if you care to have me.
Maurice. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is
strange, you know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless
if you can't place it at the feet of some woman — that every
thing seems worthless when you have not a woman.
Henriette. You don't need to be without a woman — you?
Maurice. Well, that's the question.
Henriette. Don't you know that a man is irresistible iri
his hour of success and fame?
Maurice. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience
of it.

32 THEREARECRIMES acth
Henriette. You area queer sort! At this moment, when
you are the most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood.
Perhaps your conscience is troubling you because you have
neglected that invitation to drink chicory coffee with the
old lady over at the milk shop?
Maurice. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that
score, and even here I am aware of their resentment, their
hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger. My comrades in
distress had the right to demand my presence this evening.
The good Madame Catherine had a privileged claim on
my success, from which a glimmer of hope was to spread over
the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And I have
robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows they
have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good
fellow; he doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his
word." Now I have made them forswear themselves.
While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has
begun to play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in
D-minor (Op. 31, No. 2). The allegretto is first
played piano, then more forte, and at last passionately,
violently, with complete abandon.
Maurice. Who can be playing at this time of the night?
Henriette. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind
as we. But listen! Your presentation of the case is not
correct. Remember that Adolphe promised to meet us here.
We waited for him, and he failed to keep his promise. So
that you are not to blame 
Maurice. You think so? While you are speaking, I be
lieve you, but when you stop, my conscience begins again.
What have you in that package? "
Henriette. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to
send up to the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me
give it to you now — it is said to have a cooling effect on burn-

acth ANDCRIMES 33
ing foreheads. [She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then
she kisses him on the forehead] Hail to the victor!
Maurice. Don't!
Henriette. [Kneeling] Hail to the King!
Maurice. [Rising] No, now you scare me.
Henriette. You timid man ! You of little faith who are
afraid of fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assur
ance and turned you into a dwarf?
Maurice. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not work
ing up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring,
but I forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the
mountain. You think that my modesty shrinks before the
victor's wreath. On the contrary, I despise it: it is not
enough for me. You think I am afraid of that ghost with
its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch
on my feelings — the strength of which you don't suspect.
Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass off the
table] Away with you, you superfluous third person — you
absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any.
You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew
yourself already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot,
so I will crush the image of yourself which you have reared
in a temple no longer yours.
Henriette. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my
hero! Maurice. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most
faithful helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied?
Henriette. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it —
I think you love me, Maurice.
Maurice. Of course I do— Woman of evil omen, you
who stir up man's courage with your scent of blood, whence
do you come and where do you lead me? I loved you before
I saw you, for I trembled when I heard them speak of you.

34 THEREARECRIMES acth
And when I saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself
into mine. And when you left, I could still feel your presence
in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but something held
me back, and this evening we have been driven together as
the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is the fault?
Your friend's, who pandered for us !
Henriette. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and
what does it mean? — Adolphe has been at fault in not
bringing us together before. He is guilty of having stolen
from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself.
I am jealous of him on your behalf. I hate him because
he has cheated you out of your mistress. I should like to
blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with
him — wipe him out of the past even, make him unmade,
unborn !
Maurice. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories.
We'll cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild
woods, and then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that
he will never look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is
sealed. Woe unto us! What will come next?
Henriette. Next comes the new era — What have you
in that package?
Maurice. I cannot remember.
Henriette. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a
pair of gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at
least fifty centimes.
Maurice. [Snatching ihe things away from her] Don't you
touch them !
Henriette. They are from her?
Maurice. Yes, they are.
Henriette. Give them to me.
Maurice. No, she's better than we, better than every
body else.

acth ANDCRIMES 35
Henriette. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and
stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne  ¦
Maurice. When the child was without stockings. Yes,
she is a good woman.
Henriette. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I
am an artist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's
cap instead of the laurel wreath — Her name is Jeanne?
Maurice. How do you know?
Henriette. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers.
Maurice. Henriette!
Henriette takes the tie and the gloves and throws them
into the fireplace.
Maurice. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacri
fice of women. You shall have them, but if you ask for
innocent children, too, then I'll send you packing.
Henriette. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to
me? Maurice. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself
away. But I believe it must be those qualities which you
have and I lack. I believe that the evil within you draws
me with the irresistible lure of novelty.
Henriette. Have you ever committed a crime?
Maurice. No real one. Have you?
Henriette. Yes.
Maurice. Well, how did you find it?
Henriette. It was greater than to perform a good deed,
for by that we are placed on equality with others; it was
greater than to perform some act of heroism, for by that we
are raised above others and rewarded. That crime placed
me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings.
Since then I am living only a partial life, a sort of dream life,
and that's why reality never gets a hold on me.
Maurice. What was it you did?

36 THEREARECRIMES acth
Henriette. I won't tell, for then you would get scared
again. Maurice. Can you never be found out?
Henriette. Never. But that does not prevent me from
seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette,
where the scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never
dare to open a pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-
spot of diamonds.
Maurice. Was it that kind of a crime?
Henriette. Yes, it was that kind.
Maurice. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting.
Have you no conscience?
Henriette. None, but I should be grateful if you would
talk of something else.
Maurice. Suppose we talk of — love?
Henriette. Of that you don't talk until it is over.
Maurice. Have you been in love with Adolphe?
Henriette. I don't know. The goodness of his nature
drew me like some beautiful, all but vanished memory of
childhood. Yet there was much about his person that of
fended my eye, so that I had to spend a long time retouching,
altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a present
able figure of him. When he talked, I could notice that he
had learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested
and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then how miser
able the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to
study the original. That's why he was afraid of having us
two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once
that his time was up.
Maurice. Poor Adolphe!
Henriette. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must
be suffering beyond all bounds 
Maurice. Sh! Somebody is coming.

acth ANDCRIMES 37
Henriette. I wonder if it could be he?
Maurice. That would be unbearable.
Henriette. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you
think the situation would have shaped itself?
Maurice. At first he would have been a little sore at you
because he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-
place — and tried to find us in several other cafes — but his
soreness would have changed into pleasure at finding us — and
seeing that we had not deceived him. And in the joy at
having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of
us. And so it would make him happy to notice that we had
become such good friends. It had always been his dream
— hm! he is making the speech now — his dream that the three
of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world a
great example of friendship asking for nothing — - "Yes, 1
trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and
partly because your feelings are tied up elsewhere."
Henriette, Bravo! You must have been in a similar
situation before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture
of it. Do you know that Adolphe is just that kind of a
third person who cannot enjoy his mistress without having
his friend along?
Maurice. That's why I had to be called in to entertain
you — Hush ! There is somebody outside — It must be he.
Henriette. No, don't yoa know these are the hours when
ghosts walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear
them also. To keep awake at night, when you ought to be
sleeping, has for me the same charm as a crime: it is to place
oneself above and beyond the laws of nature.
Maurice. But the punishment is fearful — I am shivering
or quivering, with cold or with fear.
Henriette. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this
on. It will make you warm.

38 THEREARECRIMES acth
Maurice. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your
skin, as if my bod,, had been melted up by lack of sleep and
were being remoulded in your shape. I can feel the mould
ing process going on. But I am also growing a new soul,
new thoughts, and here, where your bosom has left an im
pression, I can feel my own beginning to bulge.
During this entire scene, ihe pianist in the next room has
been practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes
pianissimo, sometimes wildly fortissimo; now and
then he has kept silent for a little while, and at other
times nothing has been heard but a part of the finale:
bars 96 to 107.
Maurice. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing
on the piano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know
what I propose? Let us drive out to the Bois de Boulogne
and take breakfast in the Pavilion, and see the sun rise over
the lakes.
Henriette. Bully!
Maurice. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail
and the morning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavil
ion. Tell me, Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe?
Henriette. Oh, that's going too far! But why not?
The ass can also be harnessed to the triumphal chariot.
Let him come. [They get up.
Maurice. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring.
Henriette. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.
Curtain.

acth AND CRIMES 39

SECOND SCENE
A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de
Boulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-
chairs, and divans. There are glass doors in the back
ground, and beside them windows overlooking the lakes.
In the foreground a table is spread, with flowers in the
centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in decanters, oysters on
platters, many different kinds of wine glasses, and two
lighted candelabra. On the right there is a round table
full of newspapers and telegrams.
Maurice and Henriette are sitting opposite each other at
this small table.
The sun is just rising outside.
Maurice. There is no longer any doubt about it. The
newspapers tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate
me on my success. This is the beginning of a new life, and
my fate is wedded to yours by this night, when you were the
only one to share my hopes and my triumph. From your
hand I received the laurel, and it seems to me as if every
thing had come from you.
Henriette. What a wonderful night! Have we been
dreaming, or is this something we have really lived through?
Maurice. [Rising] And what a morning after such a
night! I feel as if it were the world's first day that is now
being illumined by the rising sun. Only this minute was the
earth created and stripped of those white films that are now
floating off into space. There lies the Garden of Eden in the
rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple — Do
you know, I am so happy I could cry at the thought that all
mankind is not equally happy — Do you hear that distant

40 THEREARECRIMES acth
murmur as of ocean waves beating against a rocky shore, as
of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you know what it
is ? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columns
of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thou
sands? They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that
be not so, then it must become so, for I will it. At this
moment all the telegraph instruments of Europe are clicking
out my name. The Oriental Express is carrying the news
papers to the Far East, toward the rising sun; and the ocean
steamers are carrying them to the utmost West. The earth
is mine, and for that reason it is beautiful. Now I should
like to have wings for us two, so that we might rise from here
and fly far, far away, before anybody can soil my happiness,
before envy has a chance to wake me out of my dream — for
it is probably a dream!
Henriette. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can
feel that you are not dreaming.
Maurice. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a
poor young man, you know, when I was walking in the woods
down there, and looked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me
like a fairy castle, and always my thoughts carried me up
to this room, with the balcony outside and the heavy curtains,
as to a place of supreme bliss. To be sitting here in company
with a beloved woman and see the sun rise while the candles
were still burning in the candelabra: that was the most
audacious dream of my youth. Now it has come true, and
now I have no more to ask of life — Do you want to die
now, together with me?
Henriette. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living.
Maurice. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes
reality. I can hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting
with alarm, and his heart is beating with dread of having
lost what it holds most precious. Can you believe me if I

acth ANDCRIMES 41
tell you that Adolphe is under this roof? Within a minute
he will be standing in the middle of this floor.
Henriette. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him
to come here, and I am already regretting it — - Well, we
shall see anyhow if your forecast of the situation proves
correct. Maurice. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's
feelings. The Head Waiter enters with a card.
Maurice. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To Henriette]
I am afraid we'll regret this.
Henriette. Too late to think of that now — Hush!
Adolphe enters, pale and hollow-eyed.
Maurice. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are!
What became of you last night?
Adolphe. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and
waited a whole hour.
Maurice. So you went to the wrong place. We were
waiting several hours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and
we are still waiting for you, as you see.
Adolphe. [Relieved] Thank heaven !
Henriette. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always
expecting the worst and worrying yourself needlessly. I
suppose you imagined that we wanted to avoid your com
pany. And though you see that we sent for you, you are
still thinking yourself superfluous.
Adolphe. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was
dreadful. They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.
Henriette. [To Adolphe] Well, are you not going to
congratulate Maurice on his great success?
Adolphe. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and
envy itself cannot deny it. Everything is giving way before

42 THEREARECRIMES acth
you, and even I have a sense of my own smallness in your
presence. Maurice. Nonsense! — Henriette, are you not going to
offer Adolphe a glass of wine?
Adolphe. Thank you, not for me — nothing at all!
Henriette. [To Adolphe] What's the matter with you?
Are you ill?
Adolphe. Not yet, but 
Henriette. Your eyes 
Adolphe. What of them?
Maurice. What happened at the Cremerie last night? I
suppose they are angry with me?
Adolphe. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence
caused a depression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody
was angry with you, believe me. Your friends understood,
and they regarded your failure to come with sympathetic for
bearance. Madame Catherine herself defended you and pro
posed your health. We all rejoiced in your success as if it
had been our own.
Henriette. Well, those are nice people! What good
friends you have, Maurice.
Maurice. Yes, better than I deserve.
Adolphe. Nobody has better friends than he deserves,
and you are a man greatly blessed in his friends— Can't
you feel how the air is softened to-day by all the kind thoughts
and wishes that stream toward you from a thousand breasts?
Maurice rises in order to hide his emotion.
Adolphe. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of
the nightmare that had been crushing them during a life
time. Humanity had been slandered— and you have exon
erated it: that's why men feel grateful toward you. To-day
they are once more holding their heads high and saying:

acth AND CRIMES 43
You see, we are a little better than our reputation after all.
And that thought makes them better.
Henriette tries to hide her emotion.
Adolphe. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a
little in your sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go.
Maurice. Why should you go when you have only just
arrived? Adolphe. Why? Because I have seen what I need not
have seen; because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause]
That you sent for me, I take as an expression of thoughtful
ness, a notice of what has happened, a frankness that hurts
less than deceit. You hear that I think well of my fellow-
beings, and this I have learned from you, Maurice. [Pause]
But, my friend, a few moments ago I passed through the
Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a woman and a
child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what
has happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought
or a word to them before you set them adrift on the waters
of the great city, then you could enjoy your happiness un
disturbed. And now I bid you good-by.
Henriette. Why must you go?
Adolphe. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell
you? Henriette. No, I don't.
Adolphe. Good-by then ! [Goes out.
Maurice. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were
naked." Henriette. What a difference between this scene and the
one we imagined ! He is better than we.
Maurice. It seems to me now as if all the rest were
better than we.
Henriette. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind
clouds, and that the woods have lost their rose colour?

44 THEREARECRIMES acth
Maurice. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black.
Let us flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the
trees are always green.
Henriette. Yes, let us — but without any farewells.
Maurice. No, with farewells.
Henriette. We were to fly. You spoke of wings — and
your feet are of lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say
farewell and get two pairs of arms around your neck — then
you can't tear yourself away.
Maurice. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of
little arms is needed to hold me fast.
Henriette. It is the child that holds you then, and not
the woman?
Maurice. It is the child.
Henriette. The child! Another woman's child! And
for the sake of it I am to suffer. Why must that child block
the way where I want to pass, and must pass?
Maurice. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never
existed. Henriette. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But
now it does exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly
in the ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage.
Maurice. The triumphal chariot! — ¦ The ass is driven to
death, but the rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.
Henriette. There is nothing to do.
Maurice. Yes, we must get married, and then our child
will make us forget the other one.
Henriette. This will kill this!
Maurice. Kill! What kind of word is that?
Henriette. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love.
Maurice. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in
its way, but it will not be killed.
Henriette. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece]

acth ANDCRIMES 45
Look at it! Five-spot of diamonds — the scaffold! Can it
be possible that our fates are determined in advance? That
our thoughts are guided as if through pipes to the spot for
which they are bound, without chance for us to stop them?
But I don't want it, I don't want it ! — Do you realise that
I must go to the scaffold if my crime should be discovered?
Maurice. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time
for it.
Henriette. No, I should regret it afterward, and you
would despise me — no, no, no! — Have you ever heard that
a person could be hated to death? Well, my father incurred
the hatred of my mother and my sisters, and he melted away
like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us talk of something else.
And, above all, let us get away. The air is poisoned here.
To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the triumph will
be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero will
hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for
new victories ! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace
your child and provide for its immediate future. You don't
have to see the mother at all.
Maurice. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour,
and I love you doubly when you show the kindness you gen
erally hide.
Henriette. And then you go to the CrSmerie and say
good-by to the old lady and your friends. Leave no unset
tled business behind to make your mind heavy on our trip.
Maurice. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet
at the railroad station.
Henriette. Agreed! And then: away from here — away
toward the sea and the sun! Curtain.

ACT III
FIRST SCENE
In the Cremerie. The gas is lit. Mme. Catherine is seated
at the counter, Adolphe at a table.
Mme. Catherine. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But
you young ones are always demanding too much, and then
you come here and blubber over it afterward.
Adolphe. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I
am as fond as ever of both of them. But there is one thing
that makes me sick at heart. You see, I thought more of
Maurice than of anybody else; so much that I wouldn't have
grudged him anything that could give him pleasure — but
now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the loss of
her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is made
doubly painful. And then there is still something else which
I have not yet been able to clear up.
Mme. Catherine. Don't brood so much. Work and di
vert yourself. Now, for instance, do you ever go to church?
Adolphe. What should I do there?
Mme. Catherine. Oh, there's so much to look at, and
then there is the music. There is nothing commonplace
about it, at least.
Adolphe. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold,
I guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then,
Madame Catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't
got it yet.
Mme. Catherine. Well, wait till you get it — But
what is this I heard a while ago? Is it true that you have
46

actih THEREARECRIMES 47
sold a picture in London for a high price, and that you have
got a medal?
Adolphe. Yes, it's true.
Mme. Catherine. Merciful heavens! — and not a word do
you say about it?
Adolphe. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems
almost worthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it
as of a spectre: it brings disaster to speak of having seen it.
Mme. Catherine. You're a queer fellow, and that's what
you have always been.
Adolphe. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much mis
fortune come in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how
adversity brings out true friends, while none but false ones
appear in the hour of success — You asked me if I ever
went to church, and I answered evasively. This morning I
stepped into the Church of St. Germain without really know
ing why I did so. It seemed as if I were looking for some
body in there — somebody to whom I could silently offer my
gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold
coin in the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-
going, and that was rather commonplace, I should say.
Mme. Catherine. It was always something; and then
it was fine to think of the poor after having heard good
news. Adolphe. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was
something I did because I couldn't help myself. But some
thing more occurred while I was in the church. I saw
Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child. Struck down,
crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the
full extent of their misfortune.
Mme. Catherine. Well, children, I don't know in what
kind of shape you keep your consciences. But how a decent
fellow, a careful and considerate man like Monsieur Maurice,

48 THERE ARE CRIMES act in
can all of a sudden desert a woman and her child, that is
something I cannot explain.
Adolphe. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to
understand it himself. I met them this morning, and every
thing appeared quite natural to them, quite proper, as if they
couldn't imagine anything else. It was as if they had been
enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the fulfilment of
a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that
we cannot explain, and for this reason it is not for us to
judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. Maurice
felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried to prevent
their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, but
nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by
some invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile
into each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this
case, but I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not
guilty." Mme. Catherine. Well, now, to be able to forgive as
you do, that's what I call religion.
Adolphe. Heavens, could it be that I am religious with
out knowing it.
Mme. Catherine. But then, to let oneself be driven or
tempted into evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means
weakness or bad character. And if you feel your strength
failing you, then you ask for help, and then you get it. But
he was too conceited to do that — Who is this coming?
The Abbe, I think.
Adolphe. What does he want here?
Abbe. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening,
Monsieur. Mme. Catherine. Can I be of any service?
Abbe. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here
to-day?

acthi ANDCRIMES 49
Mme. Catherine. Not to-day. His play has just been
put on, and that is probably keeping him busy.
Abbjb. I have — sad news to bring him. Sad in several
respects. Mme. Catherine. May I ask of what kind?
AjBBfe. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that
girl, Jeanne, is dead.
Mme. Catherine. Dead!
Adolphe. Marion dead!
Abbe. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any
previous illness.
Mme. Catherine. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways!
Abbe. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur
Maurice look after her, so we must try to find him. But
first a question in confidence : do you know whether Monsieur
Maurice was fond of the child, or was indifferent to it?
Mme. Catherine. If he was fond of Marion? Why,
all of us know how he loved her.
Adolphe. There's no doubt about that.
Abbe. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far
as I am concerned.
Mme. Catherine. Has there been any doubt about it?
Abbe. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in
the neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its
mother in order to go away with a strange woman. In a
few hours this rumour has grown into definite accusations,
and at the same time the feeling against him has risen to
such a point that his life is threatened and he is being called
a murderer. Mme. Catherine. Good God, what is this? What does
it mean?
Abbe. Now I'll tell you my opinion — I am convinced
that the man is innocent on this score, and the mother feels

50 THEREARECRIMES acthi
as certain about it as I do. But appearances are against
Monsieur Maurice, and I think he will find it rather hard
to clear himself when the police come to question him.
Adolphe. Have the police got hold of the matter?
Abbe. Yes, the police have had to step in to protect him
against all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people.
Probably the Commissaire will be here soon.
Mme. Catherine. [To Adolphe] There you see what hap
pens when a man cannot tell the difference between good and
evil, and when he trifles with vice. God will punish!
Adolphe. Then he is more merciless than man.
Abbe. What do you know about that?
Adolphe. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what
happens — ¦ — ¦
Abbe. And you understand it also?
Adolphe. Not yet perhaps.
Abbe. Let us look more closely at the matter — Oh, here
comes the Commissaire.
Commissaire. [Enters] Gentlemen — Madame Catherine —
I have to trouble you for a moment with a few questions
concerning Monsieur Maurice. As you have probably heard,
he has become the object of a hideous rumour, which, by the
by, I don't believe in.
Mme. Catherine. None of us believes in it either.
Commissaire. That strengthens my own opinion, but for
his own sake I must give him a chance to defend himself.
Abbe. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, al
though it may come hard.
Commissaire. Appearances are very much against him,
but I have seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their
innocence was discovered. Let me tell you what there is
against him. The little girl, Marion, being left alone by her

acthi ANDCRIMES 51
mother, was secretly visited by the father, who seems to
have made sure of the time when the child was to be found
alone. Fifteen minutes after his visit the mother returned
home and found the child dead. All this makes the position
of the accused man very unpleasant — The post-mortem
examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison,
but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that
leave no traces behind them. To me all this is mere coin
cidence of the kind I frequently come across. But here's
something that looks worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice
was seen at the Auberge des Adrets in company with a strange
lady. According to the waiter, they were talking about
crimes. The Place de Roquette and the scaffold were both
mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a pair of
lovers of good breeding and good social position! But even
this may be passed over, as we know by experience that
people who have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem
inclined to dig up all the worst that lies at the bottom of
their souls. Far more serious is the evidence given by the
head waiter as to their champagne breakfast in the Bois de
Boulogne this morning. He says that he heard them wish the
life out of a child. The man is said to have remarked that,
"It would be better if it had never existed." To which the
woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does exist." And as
they went on talking, these words occurred: "This will kill
this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is
that?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold,
the Place de Roquette." All this, you see, will be hard to
get out of, and so will the foreign journey planned for this
evening. These are serious matters.
Adolphe. He is lost!
Mme. Catherine. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't
know what to believe.

52 THEREARECRIMES acthi
Abbe. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on
him! Adolphe. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it.
Mme. Catherine. He had no business to get in.
Adolphe. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame
Catherine? Mme. Catherine. Yes and no. I have got beyond having
an opinion in this matter. Have you not seen angels turn
into devils just as you turn your hand, and then become
angels again?
Commissaire. It certainly does look queer. However,
we'll have to wait and hear what explanations he can give.
No one will be judged unheard. Good evening, gentlemen.
Good evening, Madame Catherine. [Goes out.
Abbe. This is not the work of man.
Adolphe. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for
the undoing of man.
Abbe. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it
is a terrible test.
Jeanne. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening.
Pardon me for asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice?
Mme. Catherine. No, madame, but I think he may be
here any minute. You haven't met him then since 
Jeanne. Not since this morning.
Mme. Catherine. Let me tell you that I share in your
great sorrow.
Jeanne. Thank you, madame. [To the Abbe] So you are
here, Father.
Abbe. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use
to you. And it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to
speak to the Commissaire.
Jeanne. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice
also, does he?

act in ANDCRIMES 53
Abbe. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But ap
pearances are against him in a most appalling manner.
Jeanne. You mean on account of the talk the waiters
overheard — it means nothing to me, who has heard such
things, before when Maurice had had a few drinks. Then it
is his custom to speculate on crimes and their punishment.
Besides it seems to have been the woman in his company
who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like to
have a look into that woman's eyes.
Adolphe. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm
that woman may have done you, she did nothing with evil
intention — in fact, she had no intention whatever, but just
followed the promptings of her nature. I know her to be a
good soul and one who can very well bear being looked
straight in the eye.
Jeanne. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has
great value to me, and I believe what you say. It means
that I cannot hold anybody but myself responsible for what
has happened. It is my carelessness that is now being
punished. [She begins to cry.
Abb!;. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and
the serious spirit in which you have regarded your mother
hood. That your assumption of this responsibility had not
been sanctioned by religion and the civil law was not your
fault. No, we are here facing something quite different.
Adolphe. What then?
Abbe. Who can tell?
Henriette enters, dressed in travelling suit.
Adolphe. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to
meet Henriette] You here?
Henriette. Yes, where is Maurice?
Adolphe. Do you know — or don't you?
Henriette. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame

54 THEREARECRIMES acthi
Catherine, but I was ready to start and absolutely had to
step in here a moment. [To Adolphe] Who is that woman?
—Oh! Henriette and Jeanne stare at each other.
Emile appears in the kitchen door.
Henriette. [To Jeanne] I ought to say something, but
it matters very little, for anything I can say must sound like
an insult or a mockery. But if I ask you simply to believe
that I share your deep sorrow as much as anybody standing
closer to you, then you must not turn away from me. You
mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not your forbearance.
[Holds out her hand.
Jeanne. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now — and in the
next moment I don't. [Takes Henriette's hand.
Henriette. [Kisses Jeanne's hand] Thank you!
Jeanne. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't de
serve it! I don't deserve it!
Abbe. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and
peace seems to prevail temporarily at least, won't you,
Mademoiselle Henriette, shed some light into all the uncer
tainty and darkness surrounding the main point of accusa
tion? I ask you, as a friend among friends, to tell us what
you meant with all that talk about killing, and crime, and
the Place de Roquette. That your words had no connection
with the death of the child, we have reason to believe, but
it would give us added assurance to hear what you were really
talking about. Won't you tell us?
Henriette. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I
cannot !
Adolphe. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will
relieve us all.
Henriette. I cannot! Don't ask me!
Abbe. This is not the work of man!

ACTm AND CRIMES 55
Henriette. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in
this manner! [To Jeanne] Madame, I swear that I am not
guilty of your child's death. Is that enough?
Jeanne. Enough for us, but not for Justice.
Henriette. Justice! If you knew how true your words are!
Abbe. [To Henriette] And if you knew what you were
saying just now!
Henriette. Do you know that better than I?
Abbe. Yes, I do.
Henriette looks fixedly at the Abbe.
Abbe. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will
not be exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human
justice, but a great deal with divine mercy.
Maurice. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't
look at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes
straight up to the counter, where Mme. Catherine is sitting.]
You are not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I
didn't show up. I have come now to apologise to you be
fore I start for the South at eight o'clock this evening.
Mme. Catherine is too startled to say a word.
Maurice. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around]
What does all this mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of
course, I can see that it is all real, but it looks like a wax
cabinet — There is Jeanne, looking like a statue and dressed
in black — And Henriette looking like a corpse — What
does it mean?
AU remain silent.
Maurice. Nobody answers. It must mean something
dreadful. [Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my
friend, what is it? [Pointing to Emile] And there is a de
tective! Adolphe. [Comes forward] You don't know then?
Maurice. Nothing at all. But I must know!

56 THEREARECRIMES acthi
Adolphe. Well, then — Marion is dead.
Maurice. Marion — dead?
Adolphe. Yes, she died this morning.
Maurice. [To Jeanne] So that's why you are in mourn
ing. Jeanne, Jeanne, who has done this to us?
Jeanne. He who holds life and death in his hand.
Maurice. But I saw her looking well and happy this
morning. How did it happen? Who did it? Somebody
must have done it? [His eyes seek Henriette.
Adolphe. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is
none to be found. Unfortunately the police have turned
their suspicion in a direction where none ought to exist.
Maurice. What direction is that?
Adolphe. Well — you may as well know that your reckless
talk last night and this morning has placed you in a light
that is anything but favourable.
Maurice. So they were listening to us. Let me see, what
were we saying — I remember! — ¦ Then I am lost!
Adolphe. But if you explain your thoughtless words we
will believe you.
Maurice. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to
prison, but it doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead!
And I have killed her!
General consternation.
Adolphe. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your
words! Do you realise what you said just now?
Maurice. What did I say?
Adolphe. You said that you had killed Marion.
Maurice. Is there a human being here who could believe
me a murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking
my own child's life? You who know me, Madame Cather
ine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe 
Mme. Catherine. I don't know any longer what to be-

acthi ANDCRIMES 57
lieve. What the heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And
your tongue has spoken evil words.
Maurice. She doesn't believe me!
Adolphe. But explain your words, man! Explain what
you meant by saying that "your love would kill everything
that stood in its way."
Maurice. So they know that too — Are you willing to
explain it, Henriette?
Henriette. No, I cannot do that.
Abbe. There is something wrong behind all this and you
have lost our sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have
sworn that you were innocent, and I wouldn't do that now.
Maurice. [To Jeanne] What you have to say means
more to me than anything else.
Jeanne. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was it you
cursed during that orgie out there?
Maurice. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am
guilty, and yet I am guiltless. Let me go away from here,
for I am ashamed of myself, and I have done more wrong
than I can forgive myself.
Henriette. [To Adolphe] Go with him and see that he
doesn't do himself any harm.
Adolphe. Shall I  ?
Henriette. Who else?
Adolphe. [Witiiout bitterness] You are nearest to it — Sh!
A carriage is stopping outside.
Mme. Catherine. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as
I have seen of life, I could never have believed that success
and fame were such short-lived things.
Maurice. [To Henriette] From the triumphal chariot to
the patrol wagon !
Jeanne. [Simply] And the ass — who was that?
Adolphe. Oh, that must have been me.

58 THEREARECRIMES acthi
Commissaire. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons
to Police Headquarters — to-night, at once — for Monsieur
Maurice Gerard — and for Mademoiselle Henriette Mauclerc
—both here?
Maurice and Henriette. Yes.
Maurice. Is this an arrest?
Commissaire. Not yet. Only a summons.
Maurice. And then?
Commissaire. We don't know yet.
Maurice and Henriette go toward the door.
Maurice. Good-bye to all!
Everybody shows emotion. The Commissaire, Maurice,
and Henriette go out.
Emile. [Enters and goes up to Jeanne] Now I'll take you
home, sister.
Jeanne. And what do you think of all this?
Emile. The man is innocent.
Abbe. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something
despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardon
able when a woman and her child are involved.
Emile. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when
it concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented
from throwing the first stone because I have done the same
thing myself.
Abbe. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I
am not throwing any stones either, but the act condemns
itself and is punished by its consequences.
Jeanne. Pray for him ! For both of them !
Abbe. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an imperti
nence to want to change the counsels of the Lord. And
what has happened here is, indeed, not the work of man.
Curtain.

acthi ANDCRIMES 59

SECOND SCENE
The Auberge des Adrets. Adolphe and Henriette are seated
at the same table where Maurice and Henriette were
sitting in the second act. A cup of coffee stands in front
of Adolphe. Henriette has ordered nothing.
Adolphe. You believe then that he will come here?
Henriette. I am sure. He was released this noon for
lack of evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the
streets before it was dark.
Adolphe. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible
to me since yesterday.
Henriette. And what about me? I am afraid to live,
dare hardly breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know
that somebody is spying not only on my words but on my
thoughts. Adolphe. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't
find you?
Henriette. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from
shame when I think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a dif
ferent, a better, stuff than he or I — —
Adolphe. Sh, sh, sh!
Henriette. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made
me stay here? I was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxi
cated me and bewitched me — I cannot explain it. But if
you had come, it would never have happened. And to-day
you are great, and he is small — less than the least of all.
Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day he
has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And
public opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith
will be judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and

60 THEREARECRIMES acthi
those that see farthest hold that the child died from sorrow,
so that he was responsible for it anyhow.
Adolphe. You know what my thoughts are in this matter,
Henriette, but I should like to know that both of you are
spotless. Won't you tell me what those dreadful words of
yours meant? It cannot be a chance that your talk in a
festive moment like that dealt so largely with killing and the
scaffold. Henriette. It was no chance. It was something that
had to be said, something I cannot tell you — probably be
cause I have no right to appear spotless in your eyes, seeing
that I am not spotless.
Adolphe. All this is beyond me.
Henriette. Let us talk of something else — Do you be
lieve there are many unpunished criminals at large among
us, some of whom may even be our intimate friends?
Adolphe. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean?
Henriette. Don't you believe that every human being at
some time or another has been guilty of some kind of act
which would fall under the law if it were discovered?
Adolphe. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act
escapes being punished by one's own conscience at least.
[Rises and unbuttons his coat] And — nobody is really good
who has not erred. [Breathing heavily] For in order to know
how to forgive, one must have been in need of forgiveness —
I had a friend whom we used to regard as a model man. He
never spoke a hard word to anybody; he forgave everything
and everybody; and he suffered insults with a strange satis
faction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in life, he
gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent!
[He sits down again.
Henriette remains silent, looking at him with surprise.
Adolphe. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not

ACTm ANDCRIMES 61
mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse
ones, for they have to be punished by ourselves, and no
judge could be more severe than we are against our own
selves. Henriette. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did
he find peace?
Adolphe. After endless self-torture he reached a certain
degree of composure, but life had never any real pleasures to
offer him. He never dared to accept any kind of distinction;
he never dared to feel himself entitled to a kind word or even
well-earned praise: in a word, he could never quite forgive
himself. Henriette. Never? What had he done then?
Adolphe. He had wished the life out of his father. And
when his father suddenly died, the son imagined himself
to have killed him. Those imaginations were regarded as
signs of some mental disease, and he was sent to an asylum.
From this he was discharged after a time as wholly recov
ered — as they put it. But the sense of guilt remained with
him, and so he contmued to punish himself for his evil
thoughts. Henriette. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill?
Adolphe. You mean in some mystic way?
Henriette. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my
own family — I am sure that my mother and my sisters
killed my father with their hatred. You see, he had the
awful idea that he must oppose all our tastes and inclina
tions. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he tried to
root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that accu
mulated until it became like an electrical battery charged
with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished
away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the
end, came to wish himself dead.

62 THEREARECRIMES acthi
Adolphe. And your conscience never troubled you?
Henriette. No, and furthermore, I don't know what
conscience is.
Adolphe. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn.
[Pause] How do you believe Maurice will look when he gets
here? What do you think he will say?
Henriette. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I
tried to make the same kind of guess about you while we
were waiting for you.
Adolphe. Well?
Henriette. We guessed entirely wrong.
Adolphe. Can you tell me why you sent for me?
Henriette. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty!
Adolphe. How strange it is that you can admit your
faults and yet not repent of them.
Henriette. It must be because I don't feel quite respon
sible for them. They are like the dirt left behind by thn^s
handled during the day and washed off at night. But tell
me one thing: do you really think so highly of humanity as
you profess to do?
Adolphe. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation —
and a little worse.
Henriette. That is not a straightforward answer.
Adolphe. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me
frankly when I ask you: do you still love Maurice?
Henriette. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this
moment I feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could
very well live without him.
Adolphe. It's likely you could, but I fear you have be
come chained to his fate — Sh! Here he comes.
Henriette. How everything repeats itself. The situa^
tion is the same, the very words are the same, as when we
were expecting you yesterday.

ACTm ANDCRIMES 63
Maurice. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven]
Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me. For that last
night in a cell changed me into a new sort of being.
[Notices Henriette and Adolphe.
Adolphe. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then
we can talk things over.
Maurice. [To Henriette] Perhaps I am in the way?
Adolphe. Now, don't get bitter.
Maurice. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours,
and suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself.
And who wants to keep company with a murderer?
Henriette. But you have been cleared of the charge.
Maurice. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but
not by public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice
Gerard, once a playwright, and his mistress, Henriette
Mauclerc 
Henriette. O my mother and my sisters — my mother!
Jesus have mercy!
Maurice. And can you see that I actually look like a
murderer? And then it is suggested that my play was
stolen. So there isn't a vestige left of the victorious hero
from yesterday. In place of my own, the name of Octave,
my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he is going to col
lect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, Solon!
Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate,
Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded.
Henriette. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a
great success in London and carried off the first prize?
Maurice. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true,
Adolphe? Adolphe. It is true, but I have returned the prize.
Henriette. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you

64 THEREARECRIMES acthi
are also prevented from accepting any distinctions — like
your friend?
Adolphe. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!
Maurice. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us
still farther apart.
Adolphe. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be
as lonely with my success as you with your adversity. Think
of it — that people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly
to be alive!
Maurice. You say that! What am I then to say? It is
as if my eyes had been covered with a black veil, and as if
the colour and shape of all life had been changed by it. This
room looks like the room I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite
different. I recognise both of you, of course, but your faces
are new to me. I sit here and search for words because I
don't know what to say to you. I ought to defend myself,
but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it protected
me, at least, against the curious glances that pass right
through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress!
You don't love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I
care for you. To-day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive.
Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated them
selves at a table in the background.
Adolphe. Wait a little and get your thoughts together.
That you have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion
must appear in some of the evening papers. And that puts
an end to the whole matter. Your play will be put on again,
and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one. Leave
Paris for a year and let everything become forgotten. You
who have exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself.
Maurice. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha!
Adolphe. You have ceased to believe in goodness?
Maurice. Yes, if Fever did believe in it. Perhaps it was

ACTm ANDCRIMES 65
only a mood, a manner of looking at things, a way of being
polite to the wild beasts. When I, who was held among the
best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the
wretchedness of the rest?
Adolphe. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers,
and then we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in
a different way.
Maurice. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives !
— It means that I am released under surveillance, so that I
can give myself away by careless talking.
Adolphe. Those are not detectives. That's only your
imagination. I recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.
Maurice. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that
Henriette and I may come to open explanations.
Adolphe. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your
future. Try to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in
a moment. [Goes out.
Henriette. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of
our guilt or guiltlessness?
Maurice. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a
lot of nonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that
comes back, and that crime you have grafted on to me.
Henriette. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!- — Was it
not you who cursed your own child, and wished the life out
of it, and wanted to go away without saying good-bye to any
body? And was it not I who made you visit Marion and
show yourself to Madame Catherine?
Maurice. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved
yourself more human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own.
Forgive me! But all the same I am without guilt. Who
has tied this net from which I can never free myself? Guilty
and guiltless: guiltless and yet guilty! > Oh, it is driving me

66 THEREARECRIMES acthi
mad — Look, now they sit over there and listen to us— ¦
And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go out and order
a cup of tea. Do you want anything?
Henriette. Nothing.
Maurice goes out.
First Detective. [Goes up to Henriette] Let me look
at your papers.
Henriette. How dare you speak to me?
Detective. Dare? I'll show you!
Henriette. What do you mean?
Detective. It's my job to keep an eye on street- walkers.
Yesterday you came here with one man, and to-day with
another. That's as good as walking the streets. And un
escorted ladies don't get anything here. So you'd better get
out and come along with me.
Henriette. My escort will be back in a moment.
Detective. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got —
the kind that doesn't help a girl a bit!
Henriette. 0 God! My mother, my sisters! — ¦ I am of
good family, I tell you.
Detective. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you
are too well known through the papers. Come along!
Henriette. Where? What do you mean?
Detective. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll
get a nice little card and a license that brings you free medical
care. Henriette. 0 Lord Jesus, you don't mean it!
Detective. [Grabbing Henriette by the arm] Don't I
mean it?
Henriette. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice!
Help! Detective. Shut up, you fool!
Maurice enters, followed by Waiter.

ACTm ANDCRIMES 67
Waiter. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here.
You just pay and get out! And take the girl along!
Maurice. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money]
Henriette, pay for me, and let us get away from this place.
I haven't a sou left.
Waiter. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse!
Alphonse! Do you know what that is?
Henriette. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful
heavens! I have no money either! — Why doesn't Adolphe
come back?
Detective. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out
of here, and put up something as security. That kind of
ladies generally have their fingers full of rings.
Maurice. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low?
Henriette. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the Waiter]
The Abbe was right : this is not the work of man.
Maurice. No, it's the devil's! — But if we leave before
Adolphe returns, he will think that we have deceived him
and run away.
Henriette. That would be in keeping with the rest — ¦
But we'll go into the river now, won't we?
Maurice. [Takes Henriette by the hand as they walk out
together] Into the river — yes! Curtain.

ACT IV
FIRST SCENE
In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve.
The wind is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves,
straws, and pieces of papeffrom the ground.
Maurice and Henriette are seated on a bench.
Henriette. So you don't want to die?
Maurice. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going
to be very cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to
cover me and a few shavmgs to lie on. And besides that, it
seems to me as if there were still some task waiting for me,
but I cannot make out what it is.
Henriette. But I can guess what it is.
Maurice. Tell me.
Henriette. It is revenge. You, like me, must have sus
pected Jeanne and Emile of sending the detectives after me
yesterday. Such a revenge on a rival none but a woman
could devise.
Maurice. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell
you that my suspicions go even further. It seems as if my
sufferings during these last few days had sharpened my wits.
Can you explain, for instance, why the waiter from the
Auberge des Adrets and the head waiter from the Pavilion
were not called to testify at the hearing?
Henriette. I never thought of it before. But now I
know why. They had nothing to tell, because they had not
been listening. 68

activ THEREARECRIMES 69
Maurice. But how could the Commissaire then know
what we had been saying?
Henriette. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He
was guessing, and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to
deal with some similar case before.
Maurice. Or else he concluded from our looks what we
had been saying. There are those who can read other
people's thoughts — Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed
quite natural that we should haye called him an ass. It's
the rule, I understand, although it's varied at times by the
use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer at hand in this
case, as we had been talking of carriages and triumphal
chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth fact,
when you have three known ones to start from.
Henriette. Just think that we have let ourselves be
taken in so completely.
Maurice. That's the result of thinking too well of one's
fellow beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you
know, I suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire,
who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel.
Henriette. You mean the Abbe, who was taking the part
of a private detective.
Maurice. That's what I mean. That man has to receive
all kinds of confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself
told us he had been at the Church of St. Germain that morn
ing. What was he doing there? He was blabbing, of course,
and bewailing his fate. And then the priest put the ques
tions together for the Commissaire.
Henriette. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe?
Maurice. I trust no human being any longer.
Henriette. Not even Adolphe?
Maurice. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy
— a man from whom I have taken away his mistress?

70 THEREARECRIMES activ
Henriette. Well, as you were the first one to speak of
this, I'll give you some data about our friend. You heard
he had returned that medal from London. Do you know
his reason for doing so?
Maurice. No.
Henriette. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has
taken a penitential vow never to receive any kind of dis
tinction. Maurice. Can that be possible? But what has he done?
Henriette. He has committed a crime of the kind that
is not punishable under the law. That's what he gave me
to understand indirectly.
Maurice. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model
man, who never speaks a hard word of anybody and who
forgives everything.
Henriette. Well, there you can see that we are no worse
than others. And yet we are being hounded day and night
as if devils were after us.
Maurice. He, also! Then mankind has not been slan
dered — But if he has been capable of one crime, then you
may expect anything of him. Perhaps it was he who sent the
police after you yesterday. Coming to think of it now, it
was he who sneaked away from us when he saw that we were
in the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those
fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may ex
pect anything from a deceived lover.
Henriette. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is im
possible, impossible!
Maurice. Why so? If he is a scoundrel? — What were
you two talking of yesterday, before I came?
Henriette. He had nothing but good to say of you.
Maurice. That's a lie!
Henriette. [Controlling herself and changing her tone]

activ AND CRIMES 71
Listen. There is one person on whom you have cast no sus
picion whatever — for what reason, I don't know. Have you
thought of Madame Catherine's wavering attitude in this
matter? Didn't she say finally that she believed you capa
ble of anything?
Maurice. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of
person she is. To think evil of other people without reason,
you must be a villain yourself.
Henriette looks hard at him. Pause.
Henriette. To think evil of others, you must be a villain
yourself. Maurice. What do you mean?
Henriette. What I said.
Maurice. Do you mean that I  ?
Henriette. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here!
Did you meet anybody but Marion when you called there
yesterday morning?
Maurice. Why do you ask?
Henriette. Guess!
Maurice. Well, as you seem to know — I met Jeanne, too.
Henriette. Why did you lie to me?
Maurice. I wanted to spare you.
Henriette. And now you want me to believe in one who
has been lying to me? No, my boy, now I beheve you guilty
of that murder.
Maurice. Wait a moment! We have now reached the
place for which my thoughts have been heading all the time,
though I resisted as long as possible. It's queer that what
lies next to one is seen last of all, and what one doesn't want
to believe cannot be believed — Tell me something: where
did you go yesterday morning, after we parted in the Bois?
Henriette. [Alarmed] Why?

72 THEREARECRIMES activ
Maurice. You went either to Adolphe — which you couldn't
do, as he was attending a lesson — or you went to — Marion!
Henriette. Now I am convinced that you are the mur
derer. Maurice. And I, that you are the murderess ! You alone
had an interest in getting the child out of the way — to get
rid of the rock on the road, as you so aptly put it.
Henriette. It was you who said that.
Maurice. And the one who had an interest in it must
have committed the crime.
Henriette. Now, Maurice, we have been running around
and around in this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us
quit before we get to the point of sheer madness.
Maurice. You have reached that point already.
Henriette. Don't you think it's time for us to part,
before we drive each other insane?
Maurice. Yes, I think so.
Henriette. [Rising] Good-bye then!
Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the back
ground.
Henriette. [Turns and comes back to Maurice] There
they are again !
Maurice. The dark angels that want to drive us out of
the garden.
Henriette. And force us back upon each other as if we
were chained together.
Maurice. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong mar
riage. Are we really to marry? To settle down in the same
place? To be able to close the door behind us and perhaps
get peace at last?
Henriette. And shut ourselves up in order to torture
each other to death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost
for marriage portion; you torturing me with the memory

activ AND CRIMES 73
of Adolphe, and I getting back at you with Jeanne — and
Marion. Maurice. Never mention the name of Marion again!
Don't you know that she was to be buried to-day — at this
very moment perhaps?
Henriette. And you are not there? What does that
mean? Maurice. It means that both Jeanne and the police have
warned me against the rage of the people.
Henriette. A coward, too?
Maurice. All the vices ! How could you ever have cared
for me?
Henriette. Because two days ago you were another per
son, well worthy of being loved 
Maurice. And now sunk to such a depth!
Henriette. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt
bad qualities which are not your own.
Maurice. But yours?
Henriette. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse
I feel myself at once a little better.
Maurice. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self-
respect. Henriette. And how vulgar you have become, too !
Maurice. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise
myself since that night in the cell. They put in one person
and let out another through that gate which separates us
from the rest of society. And now I feel myself the enemy
of all mankind : I should like to set fire to the earth and dry
up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal conflagration
can wipe out my dishonour.
Henriette. I had a letter from my mother to-day. She
is the widow of a major in the army, well educated, with old-
fashioned ideas of honour and that kind of thing. Do you

74 THEREARECRIMES activ
want to read the letter? No, you don't! — Do you know
that I am an outcast? My respectable acquaintances will
have nothing to do with me, and if I show myself on the
streets alone the police will take me. Do you realise now
that we have to get married?
Maurice. We despise each other, and yet we have to
marry: that is hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before
we unite our destinies you must tell me your secret, so that
we may be on more equal terms.
Henriette. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who
got into trouble — you understand. I wanted to help her, as
her whole future was at stake — and she died !
Maurice. That was reckless, but one might almost call
it noble, too. '
Henriette. You say so now, but the next time you lose
your temper you will accuse me of it.
Maurice. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has
shaken my faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you.
Tell me, is her lover still alive, and does he know to what
extent you were responsible?
Henriette. He was as guilty as I.
Maurice. And if his conscience should begin to trouble
him — such things do happen — and if he should feel inclined
to confess: then you would be lost.
Henriette. I know it, and it is this constant dread which
has made me rush from one dissipation to another — so that I
should never have time to wake up to full consciousness.
Maurice. And now you want me to take my marriage
portion out of your dread. That's asking a little too much.
Henriette. But when I shared the shame of Maurice
the murderer 
Maurice. Oh, let's come to an end with it!
Henriette. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my

activ AND CRIMES 75
hold until I have put you where you belong. For you can't
go around thinking yourself better than I am.
Maurice. So you want to fight me then? All right, as
you please!
Henriette. A fight on life and death!
The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.
Maurice. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the
ground for thy sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth
to thee."
Henriette. "And the Lord God said unto the woman  "
A Guard. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but
the garden has to be closed.

Curtain.

SECOND SCENE
The Cremerie. Mme. Catherine is sitting at the counter
making entries into an account book. Adolphe and
Henriette are seated at a table.
fa -:'¦<-: i '. fay
V Adolphe. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final
assurance that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary,
I thought you had played me false, this ought to convince
you. Henriette. But why did you fool us by saying that those
fellows were not policemen?
Adolphe. I didn't think myself that they were, and then
I wanted to reassure you.
Henriette. When you say it, I believe you. But then
you must also believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts
to you.
Adolphe. Go on. (X'^lW-'ft fH, oX l*-cX ;

76 THEREARECRIMES activ
Henriette. But you mustn't come back with your usual
talk of fancies and delusions.
Adolphe. You seem to have reason to fear that I may.
Henriette. I fear nothing, but I know you and your
scepticism — Well, and then you mustn't tell this to any
body — promise me!
Adolphe. I promise.
Henriette. Now think of it, although I must say it's
something terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is
guilty, or at least, I have reasonable suspicions — - — ^
Adolphe. You don't mean it! f
Henriette. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Mau
rice left me in the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion
alone, as the mother was out. And now I have discovered
afterward that he did meet the mother. So that he has
been lying to me.
Adolphe. That's possible, and his motive for doing so
may have been the best, but how can anybody conclude
from it that he is guilty of a murder?
Henriette. Can't you see that? — Don't you under
stand? Adolphe. Not at all.
Henriette. Because you don't want to! — Then there
is nothing left for me but to report him, and we'll see whether
he can prove an alibi. -> '
* Adolphe. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You,
like he, have reached the border line of — insanity. The
demons of distrust have got hold of you, and each of you is
using his own sense of partial guilt to wound the other with.
Let me see if I can make a straight guess: he has also come
to suspect you of killing his child?
Henriette. Yes, he's mad enough to do so.
Adolphe. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own.
U'.' w« X>..' '' '¦¦'¦X •.

activ ANDCRIMES 77
Henriette. You have first to prove the contrary, or that
I suspect him, unjustly.
Adolphe. ' Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved
that Marion died of a well-known disease, the queer name of
which I cannot recall just now.
Henriette. Is it true?
Adolphe. The official report is printed in to-day's paper.
Henriette. I don't take any stock in it. They can make
up that kind of thing. f ,;) » -»«/<•
Adolphe. Beware, Henriette — or you may, without know
ing it, pass across that border line. Beware especially of
throwing out accusations that may put you into prison.
^Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate Maurice? :
/ukp ;, Henriette. Beyond all bounds!
', 2 • Adolphe. When love turns into hatred, it means that it
was tainted from the start. >/¦.., ~
Henriette. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell
me, you who are the only one that understands me.
Adolphe. But you don't want any sermons.
Henriette. Have you nothing else to offer me?
Adolphe. Nothing else. But they have helped me.
Henriette. Preach away then ! ;
Adolphe. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put
the knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that your
trouble roots. l
Henriette. Explain yourself.
Adolphe. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot
nurse your qualms of conscience together. Break off your
career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was
a craving for freedom and fun — as they call it. And you
have seen now how much fun there is in it. Then go home / y'<<, ''
ft ' ¦ '' ' ' . - >
to your mother. '* vV ;, Qf.v.ir.i. '."'^' -'; ' ' v '-
Henriette. Never! •

78 THEREARECRIMES activ
, r. -¦;, , -
Adolphe. Some other place >then.
Henriette. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have
guessed your secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize?
Adolphe. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a
half-told story. -5- </U- ' - -
Henriette. Well — what did you do to get peace?
Adolphe. What I have suggested: I became conscious of
my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and
arranged my life like that of a penitent.
Henriette. How can you repent when, like me, you have
no conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on
you as faith is?
Adolphe. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted un
less you seek it — Seek!
Henriette remains silent.
Adolphe. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you
may harden yourself until you tumble down into the irre
trievable. Henriette. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punish
ment? Adolphe. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves
by the misdeeds of our lower selves.
Henriette. Then I must have a conscience also?
Adolphe. Of course you have, but 
Henriette. Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call
religious? Adolphe. Not the least bit.
Henriette. It's all so queer — What is religion?
Adolphe. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't
think anybody else can tell you. Sometimes it appears to
me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without
having a bad conscience.

activ AND CRIMES 79
Henriette. Yes, it is a punishment.' Now I know what
to do. Good-bye, Adolphe! ,£ , .XX
Adolphe. You'll go away from here? C '
Henriette. Yes, I am going — to where you said. Good-bye
my friend ! Good-bye,-Madame Catherine !
Mme. Catherine. Have you to go in such a hurry?
Henriette. Yes.
Adolphe. Do you want me to go with you?
Henriette. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone
as I came here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged
where I don't belong, and believing there was something
called freedom, which does not exist. Good-bye ! [Goes out.
Mme. Catherine. I hope that lady never comes back,
and I wish she had never come here at all!
Adolphe. Who knows but that she may have had some
mission to fill here? And at any rate she deserves pity,
endless pity.
Mme. Catherine. I don't deny it, for all of us deserve
that. Adolphe. And she has even done less wrong than the rest
of us.
Mme. Catherine. That's possible, but not probable.
Adolphe. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine.
Tell me: have you never done anything wrong?
Mme. Catherine. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful
human creature. But if you have been on thin ice and
fallen in, you have a right to tell others to keep away. And
you may do so without being held severe or uncharitable.
Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady
entered here: Lookout! Keep away! And he didn't, and
so he fell in. Just like a naughty, self-willed child. And
when a man acts like that he has to have a spanking, like
any disobedient youngster.

80 THEREARECRIMES activ
Adolphe. Well, hasn't he had his spanking?
Mme. Catherine. Yes, but it does not seem to have been
enough, as he is still going around complaining.
Adolphe. That's a very popular interpretation of the
whole intricate question.
Mme. Catherine. Oh, pish! You do nothing but phil
osophise about your vices, and while you are still at it the
police come along and solve the riddle. Now please leave
me alone with my accounts!
Adolphe. There's Maurice now.
Mme. Catherine. Yes, God bless him!
Maurice. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat
near Adolphe] Good evening.
Mme. Catherine nods and goes on figuring.
Adolphe. Well, how's everything with you?
Maurice. Oh, beginning to clear up.
Adolphe. [Hands him a newspaper, which Maurice does
not take] So you have read the paper?
Maurice. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's
nothing but infamies in them.
Adolphe. But you had better read it first 
Maurice. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies — But listen:
I have found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that
murder? Adolphe. Nobody, nobody!
Maurice. Do you know where Henriette was during that
quarter hour when the child was left alone? — She was
there! And it is she who has done it!
Adolphe. You are crazy, man.
Maurice. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects
me and has threatened to report me.
Adolphe. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used
the self-same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it

activ ANDCRIMES 81
has been proved by a second autopsy that the child died
from a well-known disease, the name of which I have for
gotten. Maurice. It isn't true!
Adolphe. That's what she said also. But the official
report is printed in the paper.
Maurice. A report? Then they have made it up!
Adolphe. And that's also what she said. The two of you
are suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her
I got far enough to make her realise her own condition.
Maurice. Where did she go?
Adolphe. She went far away from here to begin a new
life. Maurice. Hm, hm! — Did you go to the funeral?
Adolphe. I did.
Maurice. Well?
Adolphe. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have
a hard word to say about you.
Maurice. She is a good woman.
Adolphe. Why did you desert her then?
Maurice. Because I was crazy — blown up with pride
especially — and then we had been drinking champagne 
Adolphe. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept
when you drank champagne?
Maurice. Yes, I understand now — And for that reason
I have already written to her and asked her to forgive me —
Do you think she will forgive me?
Adolphe. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody.
Maurice. Do you think she will forgive me completely,
so that she will come back to me?
Adolphe. Well, I don't know about thati You have
shown yourself so poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful
whether she will trust her fate to you any longer.

82 THEREARECRIMES activ
Maurice. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not
ceased, and I know she will come back to me.
Adolphe. How can you know that? How can you be
lieve it? Didn't you even suspect her and that decent
brother of hers of having sent the police after Henriette out
of revenge?
Maurice. But I don't believe it any longer— that is to
say, I guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer.
Mme. Catherine. Now look here! What are you saying
of Monsieur Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a work
man, but if everybody kept as straight as he — There is
no flaw in him, but a lot of sense and tact.
Emile. [Enters] Monsieur Gerard?
Maurice. That's me.
Emile. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you
in private.
Maurice. Go right on. We are all friends here.
The Abbe enters and sits down.
Emile. [With a glance at the Abbe] Perhaps after 
Maurice. Never mind. The Abbe is also a friend, al
though he and I differ.
Emile. You know who I am, Monsieur Gerard? My
sister has asked me to give you this package as an answer
to your letter.
Maurice takes the package and opens it.
Emile. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a
way my sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my
own, I acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the
natural tie between you does not exist any longer.
Maurice. But you must have a grudge against me?
Emile. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I
should like to have a declaration from you, here in the pres
ence of your friends, that you don't think either me or my

activ AND CRIMES 83
sister capable of such a meanness as to send the police after
Mademoiselle Henriette.
Maurice. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you
my apology, if you will accept it.
Emile. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good
evening. [Goes out.
Everybody. Good evening!
Maurice. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me
for the opening night of my play, and which I let Henriette
throw into the fireplace. Who can have picked them up?
Everything is dug up; everything comes back! — And when
she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she wanted
me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would
like me also — ¦ And she herself stayed at home — This
hurt her too deeply, and well it might. ^J^have no right to
J£gep compfipy with dfffnt hiiTnjrn beings. Oh, Iiave I done
this? Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a
sacrifice offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw
away in order to get — a laurel that is lying on the rubbish
heap, and a bust that would have belonged in the pillory —
Abbe, now I come over to you.
Abbe. Welcome!
Maurice. Give me the word that I need.
Abbe. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusa
tions and inform you that you have done nothing wrong?
Maurice. Speak the right word!
Abbe. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found
your behaviour just as abominable as you have found it
yourself. Maurice. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of
this? Abbe. You know as well as I do.
Maurice. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life

84 THEREARECRIMES activ
is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world
ruined forever.
Abbe. And so you are looking for a new existence in some
better world, whieh you are now beginning to believe in?
Maurice. Yes, that's it.
Abbe. You have been living in the flesh and you want
now to live in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this
world has no more attractions for you?
Maurice. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold,
nothing but dry leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me
hide myself behind your consecrated walls and forget this
horrible dream that has filled two days and lasted two
eternities. Abbe. All right! But this is not the place to go into the
matter more closely. Let us make an appointment for this
evening at nine o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I
am going to preach to the inmates of St. Lazare, and that
may be your first step along the hard road of penitence.
Maurice. Penitence?
Abbe. Well, didn't you wish — —
Maurice. Yes, yes!
Abbe. Then we have vigils between midnight and two
o'clock. Maurice. That will be splendid !
Abbe. Give me your hand that you will not look back.
Maurice. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand,
and my will goes with it.
Servant Girl. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call
for Monsieur Maurice.
Maurice. From whom?
Servant Girl. From the theatre.
Maurice tries to get away, but the Abbe holds on to his
hand.

activ AND CRIMES 85
Abbe. [To the Servant Girl] Find out what it is.
Servant Girl. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice
is going to attend the performance to-night.
Abbe. [To Maurice, who is trying to get away] No, I
won't let you go.
Maurice. What performance is that?
Adolphe. Why don't you read the paper?
Mme. Catherine and the Abbe. He hasn't read the paper?
Maurice. It's all lies and slander. [To the Servant Girl]
Tell them that I am engaged for this evening : I am going to
church. The Servant Girl goes out into the kitchen.
Adolphe. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall
have to tell you that your play has been put on again, now
when you are exonerated. And your literary friends have
planned a demonstration for this evening in recognition of
your indisputable talent.
Maurice. It isn't true.
Everybody. It is true.
Maurice. [After a pause] I have not deserved it!
Abbe. Good!
Adolphe. And furthermore, Maurice 
Maurice. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore!
Mme. Catherine. One hundred thousand francs! Do
you see now that they come back to you? And the villa
outside the city. Everything is coming back except Made
moiselle Henriette.
Abbe. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little
more seriously, Madame Catherine.
Mme. Catherine. Oh, I cannot — I just can't keep serious
any longer! [She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly trie3 to
smother with her handkerchief.

86 THEREARECRIMES activ
Adolphe. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight.
Abbe. But the church services are at nine.
Adolphe. Maurice!
Mme. Catherine. Let us hear what the end is going to
be, Monsieur Maurice.
Maurice drops his head on the table, in his arms.
Adolphe. Loose him, Abbe!
Abbe. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do
that himself.
Maurice. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbe.
Abbe. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you
but a scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe
a duty to yourself and to your good name. That you have
got through with this as quickly as you have is to me a sign
that you have suffered your punishment as intensely as if it
had lasted an eternity. And when Providence absolves you
there is nothing for me to add.
Maurice. But why did the punishment have to be so
hard when I was innocent?
Abbe. Hard? Only two days! And vou were notingo-^
cent. For we_liay.e to -stand responsible-for- our-theughts-^
and words and desires also. And in your thought you be
came a murderer when your evil self wished the life out of
your child.
Maurice. You are right. But my decision is made.
To-night I will meet you at the church in order to have a
reckoning with myself — but to-morrow evening I go to the
theatre. Mme. Catherine. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice.
Adolphe. Yes, that is the solution. Whew!
Abbe. Yes, so itis! Curtain.

MISS JULIA

INTRODUCTION

The volume containing the translation of "There Are
Crimes and Crimes" had barely reached the public when
word came across the ocean that August Strindberg had ended
his long fight with life. His family had long suspected some
serious organic trouble. Early in the year, when he had just
recovered from an illness of temporary character, their worst
fears became confirmed. An examination disclosed a case of
cancer in the stomach, and the disease progressed so rapidly
that' soon all hope of recovery was out of the question. On
May 14, 1912, Strindberg died.
With his death peace came in more senses than one. All
the fear and hatred which he had incurred by what was best
as well as worst in him seemed to be laid at rest with his own
worn-out body. The love and the admiration which he had
won in far greater measure were granted unchecked expres
sion. His burial, otherwise as simple as he himself had pre
scribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of the
arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative
of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous mem
bers of the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women repre
senting the best of Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went
to the cemetery, though the hour of the funeral was eight
o'clock in the morning. It was an event in which the
masses and the classes shared a common sorrow, the stand
ards of student organisations mingling with the banners of
labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole
country, observed the day as one of mourning.
89

90 MISS JULIA
A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on
Strindberg's death by the European press was that, in some
mysterious manner, he, more than any other writer, appeared
to be the incarnation of the past century, with its nervous
striving after truth, its fear of being duped, and its fretting
dread that evolution and progress might prove antagonistic
terms. And at that simple grave in Stockholm more than
one bareheaded spectator must have heard the gravel rattle
on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a great indi
vidual, but a whole human period — great in spite of all its
weaknesses — was being laid away for ever.
Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strind
berg during his lifetime, none has won such widespread atten
tion as "Miss Julia," both on account of its masterful con
struction and its gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking
it, critics have repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts,"
and not always to the advantage of the latter work. It repre
sents, first of all, its author's most determined and most daring
endeavour to win the modern stage for Naturalism. If he
failed in this effort, it must be recalled to his honour that he
was among the first to proclaim his own failure and to advo
cate the seeking of new paths. When the work was still hot
from his hands, however, he believed in it with all the fervour
of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home its lesson
the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of dramatic
creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why.
This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the
play itself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered
into English. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its anal
ysis serves not only to make it a psychological document of
rare value, but also to save me much of the comment which
without it might be deemed needful.

INTRODUCTION 91
Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the
exclusive performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strind
berg formulated a new dramatic creed — that of his mystical
period, in which he was wont to sign himself "the author of
'Gustavus Vasa,' 'The Dream Play,' 'The Last Knight,' etc."
It took the form of a pamphlet entitled "A Memorandum to
the Members of the Intimate Theatre from the Stage Direc
tor" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the following data
concerning "Miss Julia," and the movement which that play
helped to start:
In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands
for reform to the stage also. Zola declared war agamst the
French comedy, with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather
shoes and patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding
one of the questions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887
Antoine opened his Theatre Libre at Paris, and 'Therese
Raquin,' although nothing but an adapted novel, became the
dominant model. It was the powerful theme and the con
centrated form that showed innovation, although the unity
of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were retained.
It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia,' 'The Father,'
and 'Creditors.'
"'Miss Julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known
preface, was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893,
having previously been played by the Students' Association
of the Copenhagen University in 1888 or 1889. In the spring
of 1893 'Creditors' was put on at the Theatre L'GEuvre, in
Paris, and in the fall of the same year 'The Father' was given
at the same theatre, with Philippe Garnier in the title part.
"But as early as 1889 the Freie Biihne had been started
at Berlin, and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been
performed. 'Miss Julia' was preceded by a lecture given by
Paul Schlenther, now director of the Hofburg Theater at

92 MISS JULIA
Vienna. The principal parts were played by Rosa Bertens,
Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And Sigismund Lau-
tenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave more than
one hundred performances of 'Creditors.'
"Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the
drama sank back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning
of the new century, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater.
There I was played from the start, being represented by the
long one-act drama 'The Link,' as well as by 'Miss Julia'
(with Eysoldt in the title part), and ' There Are Crimes and
Crimes.'" He went on to tell how one European city after another
had got its "Little," or "Free," or "Intimate" theatre.
And had he known of it, he might have added that the prom
ising venture started by Mr. Winthrop Ames at New York
comes as near as any one of its earlier rivals in the faithful
embodiment of those theories which, with Promethean rash
ness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in 1888.
For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago
seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to
the established traditions of every progressive stage.
Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888,
many honours now withheld might have fallen to his share.
But like Ibsen, he was first and last — and to the very last! — ¦
an innovator, a leader of human thought and human endeav
our. And so it happened that when the rest thought to have
overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a more advanced
position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by those to
whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues.
Three years before his death we find him writing as follows
in another pamphlet — "An Open Letter to the Intimate
Theatre," Stockholm, 1909 — of the position once assumed so
proudly and so confidently by himself:

INTRODUCTION 93
"As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the
successful performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1906, it was quite
natural that the young director (August Falck) should feel
the influence of the Preface, which recommended a search for
actuality. But that was twenty years ago, and although I
do not feel the need of attacking myself in this connection, I
cannot but regard all that pottering with stage properties as
useless." It has been customary in this country to speak of the play
now presented to the public as "Countess Julie." The noble
title is, of course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted.
It is, I fear, another outcome of that tendency to exploit the
most sensational elements in Strindberg's art which has
caused somebody to translate the name of his first great
novel as "The Scarlet Room," — instead of simply "The Red
Room," — thus hoping to connect it in the reader's mind with
the scarlet woman of the Bible.
In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count.
His daughter is no more a countess than is the daughter of
an English earl. Her title is that of "Froken," which corre
sponds exactly to the German "Fraulein" and the English
"Miss." Once it was reserved for the young women of the
nobility. By an agitation which shook all Sweden with
mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried
women. The French form of Miss Julia's Christian name is, on the
other hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at
an expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which
began to characterise the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth
century, and which continued to assert themselves almost to
the end of the nineteenth. But in English that form would
not have the same significance, and nothing in the play makes

94 MISS JULIA
its use imperative. The valet, on the other hand, would
most appropriately be named Jean both in England and
here, and for that reason I have retained this form of his
name. Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian lan
guages insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the
three northern nations — like the Germans and the French —
still use the second person singular of the personal pronoun
to indicate a closer degree of familiarity. But to translate
the Swedish "du" with the English "thou" is as erroneous
as it is awkward. Tytler laid down his " Principles of Trans
lation" in 1791 — and a majority of translators are still un
aware of their existence. Yet it ought to seem self-evident
to every thinking mind that idiomatic equivalence, not verbal
identity, must form the basis of a good and faithful transla
tion. When an English mother uses "you" to her child, she
establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the "du"
used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister.
Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually
springs from the lips of living men and women can doubt
that it offers ways of expressing varying shades of intimacy
no less effective than any found in the Swedish tongue. Let
me give an illustration from the play immediately under dis
cussion. Returning to the stage after the ballet scene, Jean
says to Miss Julia: "I love you — can you doubt it? " And
her reply, literally, is: "You? — Say thou!" I have merely
made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and her
answer: "Miss? — Call me Julia!" As that is just what
would happen under similar circumstances among English-
speaking people, I contend that not a whit of the author's
meaning or spirit has been lost in this translation.
If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And
on the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes

INTRODUCTION 95
and introductory explanations that so frequently encumber
the printed volume. On the stage all explanations must lie
within the play itself, and so they should in the book also, I
believe. The translator is either an artist or a man unfit for
his work. As an artist he must have a courage that cannot
even be cowed by his reverence for the work of a great crea
tive genius. If, mistakenly, he revere the letter of that work
instead of its spirit, then he will reduce his own task to mere
literary carpentry, and from his pen will spring not a living
form, like the one he has been set to transplant, but only a —
death mask!

AUTHOR'S PREFACE
Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed
to me a sort of Biblia 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 re
tain the capacity for deceiving themselves 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 Germany, the drama is as dead as are most of
the other fine arts.
In some other countries it 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
96

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 97
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 open
ness 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 likely to make on this
art. And with such a purpose in view, I have chosen, or sur
rendered 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 harmful by the final growth of our
reflective organs. J— ..
The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on
our weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear

98 MISS JULIA
that the same fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is pos
sible that a very sensitive spectator might fail to find satis
faction in this kind of pity, while the man believing in the
future might demand some positive suggestion for the abo
lition of evil, or, in other words, some kind of programme.
But, first of all, there is no absolute evil. That one family
perishes is the fortune of another family, 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 de
termined 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 mathe
matically 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 uncondition
ally 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 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 instruc-

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 99
tive 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 tracedbackto a single. ny>£j,ve,
thaFTEeXiew-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 ship
wrecked. But now it may be that the motive lay in all or
none of these directions. It is possible that the one wpo 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 Julia's sad fate I have suggested
many factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her
father's mistaken upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and
the suggestive influence of her fiance on a weak and degen
erate 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 mulriglicitvjjf
motives I regard as praiseworthy because it is in keeping
with the views of our own time. And if others have done

100 MISS JULIA
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 domi
nant ground-note in the complex mass of the self, and as
such it was confused with temperament. Afterward it be
came the middle-class term for an automaton, so that an in
dividual whose nature had come to a stand-still, or who had
adapted himself to a certain part in life — who had ceased to
grow, in a word — was named a character; while one remain
ing 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 wiliin'," or something of that kind. This manner of re
garding human beings as homogeneous is preserved' even by
the great Moliere. Harpagon is nothing but miserly, al
though Harpagon 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 ad-

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 101
vantage 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 bei"
lieve, 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 pre-;
decessor 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 i
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 let- /
ting different souls accept "ideas" — or suggestions, as thej/
are called — from each other. '
Miss Julia is a modern character, not because the man'-!,
hating half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but be- '
cause now, after her discovery, she has stepped to the front
and begun to make a noise. The half -woman is a type com
ing more and more into prominence, selling herself nowadays
for power, decorations, distinctions, diplomas, as formerly
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 reproducing itself and its misery through one more /
I
I

102 MISS JULIA
'¦¦ 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 Natural
ism, which wants nothing but happiness: and for happiness
strong and sound races are required.
v- But Miss Julia is also a remnant of the old military no
bility which is now giving way to thejaw-aQbilitv of nerves
and tirajn- She is a victim of the discord which a
mother's "crime" produces in a family, and also a victim of
the day's delusions, of the circumstances, of her defective
constitution — all of which may be held equivalent to the
old-fashioned fate or universal law. The naturalist has wiped
out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out the results of
- an action — punishment, prison, or fear — and for the simple
reason that they 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

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 103
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 Julia 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 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 suffer
ing from seeing the earth Uttered 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
cotter's 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 people's 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 rela
tionship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating
between love of distinction and hatred of those who have al
ready 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.

"N

104 MISS JULIA
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 night's
happenings from exercising a disturbing influence on his plans
for the future. Having at once the slave's brutality and the
master's lack of squeamishness, he can see blood without
fainting, and he can also bend his back under a mishap
until able to throw it off. For this reason he will emerge un
harmed from the battle, and will probably end his days as
the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become a Rouma
nian count, hiS.:son will probably go to a university, and may
even become a'county attorney.
Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant informa
tion 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 favourable to himself
to what is true. When Miss Julia 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 sym
pathy. But he corrects himself at once, the moment he
realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd.
And Jean stands above Miss Julia 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 en
vironment in which he has to live, and which he probably
can shed together with the valet's 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 superstition. But he reveres the count
principally as a possessor of that higher position toward
which he himself is striving. And this reverence remains

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 105
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. I
And for this reason I let Miss Julia 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. x
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 bf all respon- |
sibility for her domestic thieveries and to equip her with a'
new stock of guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate
figure, and therefore purposely sketched in^Tie^satrre-Ttfanner-
05 tVig jrvirijst^r and the doctorJn-llTheFather," whom I de-
sijmpd_3g^rdinaryhiiiTia.n beings, like the common run of
country ministers and country doctors^ And if ffieseaJcces-
sbry characters have seemed mere abstractions to some people,
it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain ex
tent 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 turn
ing my figures into catechists who make stupid questions in

106 MISS JULIA
order to call forth witty answers. I have avoided the sym
metrical and mathematical construction of the French dia
logue, and have instead permitted the minds to work irregu
larly as they do in reality, where, during conversation, the
cogs of one 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, expounded, and
built up like the theme in a musical composition.
The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is con
cerned only with two persons, I have concentrated my atten
tion on these, introducing only one subordinate figure, the
cook, and keeping the unfortunate spirit of the father hover
ing 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 any
thing else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest
satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn
how it comes to happen ! What we want to see are just the
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 dur
ing which the spectator would have time to reflect and to get
away from the suggestive influence of the author-hypnotist.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 107
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 per
formance 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 com
pleted when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect
it produced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a
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
sesthetical 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 meantime 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 the monologue as im
probable, but if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make
it seem probable, and then I can use it to good advantage.
It is probable, for instance, that a speaker may walk back
and forth in his room practising his speech aloud ; it is prob
able 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

108 MISS JULIA
actor for once may have a chance to work independently,
and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is
better that the monologues be not written out, but just indi
cated. 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 im
provise 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 improvisation and thereby produced creative
actors — who, however, must follow the author's suggestions —
and this may be counted a step forward, or even the begin
ning of a new art form that might well be called productive.
Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem un
real, I have used the pantomime, and there I have left still
greater scope for the actor's imagination — and for his desire
to gain independent honours. But in order that the public
may not be tried beyond endurance, I have permitted the
music — which is amply warranted by the Midsummer Eve's
dance — to exercise its illusory power while the dumb show
lasts. And I ask the musical director to make careful selec
tion of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible
moods are not induced by reminiscences 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 the illusion is dis
turbed. As the common people do not improvise their

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 109
gibes, but use ready-made phrases in wliich stick some double
meaning, I have not composed their lampooning song, but
have appropriated a little known folk-dance which I person
ally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words
don't quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is
intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave
keeps him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no
chattering clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flout
ing 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
impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abrupt
ness, and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illu
sion. Because the whole room and all its contents are not
shown, there is a chance to guess at things — that is, our
imagination is stirred into complementing our vision. I have
made a 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 my
self with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making
the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of break
ing with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. 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 some
thing like a room, although the painter can easily enough
produce waterfalls and flaming volcanoes. Let it go at can
vas 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

110 MISS JULIA
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 "A'ida" I noticed an oblique back
ground, 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
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 (ob-

II

AUTHOR'S PREFACE 111
tained 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 be
holding the actor's back throughout an important 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 ladies will listen to me, as they would rather
look beautiful than lifelike. 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. Sup
pose 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 state of continuous wrath. What
a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can the wrath
ful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is
smooth as a billiard ball?
In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest move
ments of the soul are to be reflected on the face rather than
by gestures and noise, it would probably be well to experi
ment with strong side-light on a small stage, and with un-
painted faces, or at least with a minimum of make-up.
If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with

112 MISS JULIA
its disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward 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 per
formance; and if, first and last, we could have a small stage
and a small house: then a new dramatic art might rise, and
the theatre might at least become an institution for the en
tertainment 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.

MISS JULIA
A NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY
1888

PERSONS
Miss Julia, 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 count's country house.

MISS JULIA

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-mfod
above it. .jjv
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. 115

116 MISS JULIA
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 manner
that they remain visible to the spectators.
Jean. To-night Miss Julia 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 in and had a dance, and there I saw
the young lady leading the 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, Chris
tine? 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

MISS JULIA 117
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 thou
sand 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, Chris
tine, 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 d&lice.
[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 sen
sitive I am.
Christine. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull,
you know. Jean eats.
Christine opens a bottle of beer.
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

118 MISS JULIA
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's 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
she lived. 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 re
finement. Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she
pulled the gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him her
self to come 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 !

MISS JULIA 119
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.
Julia. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on
the outside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in tl>e
meantime. Jean slips ihe bottle into the table-drawer and rises re
spectfully.
Julia. [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.
Julia. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's
for you, Mr. Pry!
Jean. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has !
Julia. [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?
Julia. [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 
Julia. Well, she can get somebody else — can't you, Chris
tine? Won't you let me borrow Jean from you?

120 MISS JULIA
Christine. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia
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 Julia to
dance twice in succession with the same partner, especially
as the people here are not slow in throwing out hints 
Julia. [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 
Julia. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mis
tress of the house, deign to honour this dance with my pres
ence, 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 Julia! lam at your service!
Julia. [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 Julia 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.

MISS JULIA 121
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 ihe handkerchief which Miss Julia
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 sen
sible girl, Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife 
Julia. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with
forced gayety] Yes, you are a fine partner — running away
from your lady!
Jean. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see,
looked up the one I deserted.
Julia. [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 !

122 MISS JULIA
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.
Julia. 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 Julia.
Goes further over to the right; one of his arms can be
seen as he changes his coat.
Julia [To Christine] Are you and Jean engaged, that
he's so familiar with you?
Christine. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that.
Julia. Call it?
Christine. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of
your own, and 
Julia. We were really engaged 
Christine. But it didn't come to anything just the

Jean enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.
Julia. Tres gentil, Monsieur Jeanl Tres gentill
Jean. Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!
Julia. Et vous voulez parlerfrancaisl Where did you learn
it? Jean. In Switzerland, while I worked as sommelier in one
of the big hotels at Lucerne.
Julia. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock
coat! Charming! [Sits down at the table.
Jean. Oh, you flatter me.
Julia. [Offended] Flatter — you!
Jean. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe
that you could be paying genuine compliments to one like

MISS JULIA 123
me, and so I dare to assume that you are exaggerating, or,
as we call it, flattering.
Julia. 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.
Julia. But you were born in this neighbourhood?
Jean. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's
property right by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child,
although you, of course, didn't notice me.
Julia. No, really!
Jean. Yes, and I remember one time in particular — but of
that I can't speak.
Julia. Oh, yes, do ! Why — just for once.
Jean. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time,
perhaps. Julia. 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.
Julia. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she
snores, too.
Jean. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep.
Julia. [Cynically] How do you know?
Jean. [Insolently] I have heard it.
Pause during which they study each other.
Julia. Why don't you sit down?
Jean. It wouldn't be proper in your presence.
Julia. But if I order you to do it?
Jean Then I obey.
Julia. Sit down, then! — But wait a moment! Can you
give me something to drink first?

124 MISS JULIA
Jean. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I
fear it is nothing but beer.
Julia. 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!
Julia. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself?
Jean. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a com
mand, of course 
Julia. 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.
Julia. Drink my health now!
Jean hesitates.
Julia. Are you bashful — a big, grown-up man?
Jean. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To
the health of my liege lady!
Julia. 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.
Julia. Excellent! You should have been on the stage.
Jean. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss
Julia. Somebody might see us.
Julia. 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 
Julia. What did they have to say? Tell me — Sit down
now! Jean. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were

MISS JULIA 125
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 
Julia. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't
Christine with us?
Jean. Yes — asleep!
Julia. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep?
Christine. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub !
Julia. Christine! — Did you ever see such a sleeper.
Christine. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished
— put on the coffee — yes, yes, yes — my-my — pooh!
Julia. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up?
Jean. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep.
Julia. [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.
Julia. [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 Julia?
Julia. With me!
Jean. But it won't do! Absolutely not!
Julia. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You
couldn't possibly imagine 
Jean. No, not I, but the people.
Julia. What? That I am fond of the valet?
Jean. I am not at all conceited, but such things have hap
pened — and to the people nothing is sacred.
Julia. You are an aristocrat, I think.

126 MISS JULIA
Jean. Yes, I am.
Julia. And I am stepping down 

Jean. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down.
Nobody will believe you did it on purpose. The people will
always say that you fell down.
Julia. 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 !
Julia. 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't fall. But there
will be no rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get
down, 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.
Julia. 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.

MISS JULIA 127
Jean. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night,
Miss Julia — then our dreams will come true.
They turn around in the doorway, and Jean puts one
hand up to his eyes.
Julia. Let me see what you have got in your eye.
Jean. Oh, nothing — just some dirt — it will soon be gone.
Julia. 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 Julia!
Julia. Yes, Monsieur Jean.
Jean. Attention! Je ne suis qu' un homme.
Julia. Can't you sit still! — There now! Now it's gone.
Kiss my hand now, and thank me.
Jean. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone
to bed now — Won't you listen to me?
Julia. Kiss my hand first.
Jean. Listen to me!
Julia. Kiss my hand first!
Jean. All right, but blame nobody but yourself!
Julia. 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?
Julia. 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.
Julia. That's you, I suppose?
Jean. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a
young man 

128 MISS JULIA
Julia. Of handsome appearance — what an incredible con
ceit! A Don Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I
think you are a Joseph !
Jean. Do you?
Julia. I fear it almost.
Jean goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist
in order to kiss her.
Julia. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame!
Jean. Was that in play or in earnest?
Julia. In earnest.
Jean. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your
playing is too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about
it. Now I am tired of 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.
Julia. 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.
Julia. You're proud!
Jean. In some ways, and not in others.
Julia. 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.
Julia. Who was it?
Jean remains silent.
Julia. Who was it?
Jean. You cannot make me tell you.
Julia. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as — a friend:
who was it?

MISS JULIA 129
Jean. It was you.
Julia. [Sits down] How funny !
Jean. Yes, as you say — it was ludicrous. That was the
story, you see, 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?
Julia. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do.
Jean. You may say so now, but you despise me neverthe
less. However — once I got into the Garden of Eden with
my mother to weed the onion beds. Near by stood a Turk
ish 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 walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and
the windows were hung with red, fringed curtains — now you
know what I mean. I — [brealcs off a lilac sprig and holds it
under Miss Julia's nose] — I had never been inside the manor,
and I had never seen anything but the church — and this was
much finer. No matter where my thoughts ran, they re
turned 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

130 MISS JULIA
for me there was another, and I could do nothing else but
choose it.
Julia, 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 planta
tion, and came out on the terrace where the roses grow.
There I caught sight of a pink dress and pair of white stock
ings — 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 cotter's child, here
on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with
the count's daughter.
Julia. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have
the same thoughts as you had in this case?
Jean. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If all poor
— yes — of course. Of course!
Julia. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor.
Jean. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated
emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh! — A dog may lie on her
ladyship's sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the
young lady's hand, but a servant — [changing his tone] — oh
well, here and there you meet one made of different stuff,
and he makes a way for himself in the world, but how often
does it happen? — However, do you know what I did?
I jumped 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

MISS JULIA 131
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 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 I wanted — that's more than I can tell.
Of 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.
Julia. 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.
Julia. 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 Julia, and one of your girl friends 
Julia. 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. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't
quite so much difference as they think between one kind of
people and another.
Julia. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't
live as you do when we are engaged.

132 MISS JULIA
Jean. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain? — Well,
Miss Julia, it won't pay to make yourself out so very inno
cent to me 
Julia. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a
scoundrel. Jean. That's what you always say — afterwards.
Julia. Always?
Jean. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words
used several times before, on similar occasions.
Julia. What occasions?
Jean. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last
time 
Julia. [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.
Julia. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve?
Jean. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really
no attraction for me.
Julia. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the
lake — I want to watch the sunrise.
Jean. Would that be wise?
Julia. 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 my
self under a certain obligation to Christine.
Julia. So it's Christine now 
Jean. Yes, but it's you also — Take my advice and go
to bed!
Julia. 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— if I am not mistaken— I

MISS JULIA 133
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.
Julia. I know the people, and I love them, just as they
love me. Let them come, and you'll see.
Jean. No, Miss Julia, 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 !
Julia. [Listening] What is it they are singing?
Jean. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me.
Julia. 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.
Julia. 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! Neces-

134 MISS JULIA
sity knows no law. And you can trust me, for I am your
true and frank and respectful friend.
Julia. 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!
Julia. [Meaningly] And you promise me  ?
Jean. I swear!
Miss Julia 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 of "brann-
vin," or white Swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with
wreathes woven out of leaves. First they drink. Then
they form in ring and sing and dance to the melody heard
before: "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking."
The dance finished, they leave singing.

Julia. [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?
Julia. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do?
Jean. Run away, travel, far away from here.
Julia. Travel? Yes— but where?

MISS JULIA 135
Jean. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes — you have never
been there?
Julia. No. Is the country beautiful?
Jean. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels!
Oh! Julia. But then — what are we to do down there?
Jean. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the
customers? Julia. Hotel?
Jean. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces
and new languages. Never a minute free for nerves or brood
ing. No trouble about what to do — for the work is calling
to be done: night and day, bells that 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!
Julia. Yes, that is life. And I?
Jean. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of
the house. With your looks — and your manners — oh, suc
cess 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 pre
sented 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 Malmb 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!
Julia. 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.

136 MISS JULIA
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 Julia?
Julia. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? —
Call me Julia. Between us there can be no barriers here
after. Call me Julia!
Jean. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers be
tween 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 some
thing made my back bend. [Kicking at the boots] It's nothing
but superstition and tradition hammered into us from child
hood — 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.
Julia. 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!
Julia. What do I care about all I now cast behind me!
Tell me that you love me: otherwise — yes, what am I other
wise? Jean. I will tell you so a thousand times — later. But not

MISS JULIA 137
here. And above all, no sentimentality, or everything will
be lost. We must look at the matter in cold blood, like sen
sible 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.
Julia. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feel
ings at all?
Jean. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But
I know how to control myself.
Julia. A while ago you kissed my shoe — and now!
Jean. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other
things to think of.
Julia. 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 ap
prove of them?
Julia. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there
is one question: a big undertaking of that kind will require
a big capital — have you got it?
Jean. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert
knowledge, my vast experience, my familiarity with several
languages. That's the very best kind of capital, I should
say. Julia. 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.
Julia. Where could you get one all of a sudden?
Jean. It's for you to find him if you want to become
my partner.
Julia. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.
Jean. Well, then that's off 

138 MISS JULIA

Julia. And-

Jean. Everything remains as before.
Julia. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as
your 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.
Julia. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!
— I'm falling, I'm falling!
Jean. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again after
wards. Julia. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the
attraction which the strong exercises on the weak — the one
who is rising on one 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?
Julia. 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.
Julia. Where did you get that wine?
Jean. In the cellar.
Julia. My father's Burgundy!
Jean. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law?

MISS JULIA 139
Julia. And I am drinking beer — I!
Jean. It shows merely that I have better taste than you.
Julia. Thief!
Jean. Do you mean to tell on me?
Julia. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have
I been drunk, or have I been dreaming all this night? Mid
summer Eve! The feast of innocent games 
Jean. Innocent — hm!
Julia. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another hu
man being on earth so unhappy as I am at this moment?
Jean. But why should you be? After such a conquest?
Think of Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings
also? Julia. 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 !
Julia. [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 nowXyiad the same nasty thoughts that
all boys have.
Julia. And you who wanted to die for my sake!
Jean. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk.
Julia. 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 supporting her kid — —
Julia. 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.

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

Jean. No, that I should have done myself 
Julia. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt!
Jean. Well, wash it off!
Julia. 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 h.erself at anybody
in that way? I have never seen the like of it except among
beasts and prostitutes.
Julia. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me — I
haven't deserved 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 
Julia. And pride 

MISS JULIA 141
Jean. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the
victory was too easy to bring with it any real intoxication.
Julia. Strike me some more !
Jean. [Rising] No!/ Forgive me instead Avhat I have been
saying. /I don't want to strike one7 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 the
back also; /that there is powder on the tender cheek; 'that
there may be 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 reaches neither better nor more gen
uine./ It hurts me to see you sinking so low/ that you are far
beneath your own cools/— it hurts me as it hurts to see' the
Fall flowers beaten down by the rain 'and turned into mud.
Julia. 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.
Julia. 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  Julia. 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 Julia, 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 to cover up your mistake
by making yourself believe that you are in love with me.

142 MISS JULIA
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.
Julia. 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, but she frees hersdf gently
from his hold.
Julia. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me.
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?
Julia. 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!
Julia. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape! —
But I am so tired. Give me a glass of wine.
Jean pours out wine.
Julia. [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.
Julia. 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?
Julia. 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.

MISS JULIA 143
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.
Julia. Are you not my friend?
Jean. Yes, at times — but don't rely on me.
Julia. 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 in
dependence, 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 mother's
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 some
thing about agriculture. And all over the estate men were
set to do women's work, and women to do men's — with the
result that everything went 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 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

144 MISS JULIA
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 mes
senger's carelessness, so that it came too late.
[She fills her glass again and drinks.
Jean. Don't drink any more.
Julia. 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 manufacturer living
not far from here. My father got the loan, but was not per
mitted 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!
Julia. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was?
Jean. Your mother's lover?
Julia. Do you know to whom the money belonged?
Jean. Wait a minute — no, that I don't know.
Julia. To my mother.
Jean. In other words, to the count, if there was no settle
ment. Julia. There was no settlement. My mother possessed
a small fortune of her own which she did not want to leave
in my father's control, so she invested it with — her friend.
Jean. Who copped it.
Julia. 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 mother's revenge because he had made himself

MISS JULIA 145
master in his own house. At that time he came near shoot
ing himself — it was even rumoured that he had tried and
failed. But 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 mother's 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 prob
ably 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.
Julia. Yes, in order that he should be my slave.
Jean. And he didn't want to?
Julia. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired
of him.
Jean. Yes, I saw it — in the stable-yard.
Julia. What did you see?
Jean. Just that — how he broke the engagement.
Julia. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say
he did it, the scoundrel?
Jean. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men,
Miss Julia?
Julia. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then —
when the weakness comes over me — oh, what shame!
Jean. And you hate me too?
Julia. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a
wild beast 
Jean. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that
right? Julia. That's right!
Jean. But now there is nothing to shoot with — and there
is no dog. What are we to do then?
Julia. Go abroad.

146 MISS JULIA
Jean. In order to plague each other to death?
Julia. No — in order to enjoy ourselves : a couple of days,
a week, as long as enjoyment is possible. And then — die !
Jean. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to
start a hotel.
Julia. [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.
Julia. [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.
Julia. 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.
Julia. Do you mean to say that you believe in God?
Jean. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other
Sunday. Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and
now I am going to bed.
Julia. 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.

MISS JULIA 147
Julia. [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.
Julia. [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 mSsaillance ?
Julia. Mhaillance 
Jean. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than
you, for nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson.
Julia. 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 wais 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.
Julia. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one
not worthy of 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!
Julia. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret
it! If at least you loved me!
Jean. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to
weep? Am I to jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you,
and lure you down to Lake Como for 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 Julia! 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 be-

148 MISS JULIA
tween 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.
Julia. 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!
Julia. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do-
where I am to turn?
Jean. 0 Lord, if I only knew that myself!
Julia. 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. Julia. Impossible! The people know, and Christine
knows. Jean. They don't know, and they would never believe it
possible. Julia. [Hesitating] But — it might happen again.
Jean. That's true.
Julia. 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!
Julia. 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 harm is done any
how. Then one grows more and more reckless — and at last
it all comes out. So you must get away ! Then you can write

MISS JULIA 149
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.
Julia. I'll go if you come with me.
Jean. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run
away with her valet! It would be in the papers in another
day, and the count could never survive it.
Julia. 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. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are!
Why do you 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.
Julia. [In an undertone] Come up with me!
Jean. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesi
tates a moment] No, you must go at once!
[Takes her by the hand and leads her out.
Julia. [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!
Julia 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
while tie in one of her hands.
Christine. Goodness gracious, how the place looks!
What have you been up to anyhow?
Jean. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people.
Have you been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything
at all?

150 MISS JULIA
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 Julia.
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 moment's thought] Yes, it is!
Christine. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have
believed. It's awful!
Jean. You are not jealous of her, are you?

MISS JULIA 151
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 this house —
And 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 a one at that! And she who wanted
to have poor Diana shot because she had been running around
with the gate-keeper's pug! — Well, I declare! — But I won't
stay here any longer, and next October I get out of here.
Jean. And then?
Christine. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, per-

152 MISS JULIA
haps 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 of dying all at once for the sake of wife and
children. I must say that my plans have been looking to
ward 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. [Listen
ing 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.
Julia. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small bird'

MISS JULIA 153
cage covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I
am ready.
Jean. Hush! Christine is awake.
Julia. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following
scene] Did she suspect anything?
Jean. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how
you look!
Julia. How do I look?
Jean. You're as pale as a corpse, and — pardon me, but your
face is dirty.
Julia. 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.
Julia. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night! — But
listen, Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money.
Jean. [Doubtfully] Enough?
Julia. Enough 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 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 it's too late.
This very moment!
Julia. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.
Jean. But no baggage! That would only give us away.

154 MISS JULIA
Julia. 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?
Julia. It's 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!
Julia. 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.
Julia. 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.
Julia. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't — no, I cannot!
Jean. Let me — I can !
Julia. [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 it to the chopping-
block and picks up an axe. Miss Julia turns away.
Jean. You should have learned how to kill chickens in
stead of shooting with a revolver — [brings down the axe] —
then you wouldn't have fainted for a drop of blood.
Julia. [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!

MISS JULIA 155
Julia. [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 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 yearn
ing for your 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^P
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 col
lar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons — and
I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own ser
vant. Oh! Oh! Oh! — You think I am 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 he'll send for the sheriff — and then I shall tell every
thing! 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 end to all of us — and all
will be quiet — peace — eternal rest! — And then the coat of
arms will be shattered on the coffin — and the count's line will
be wiped out — but 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 Julia!
Now you put the miller back in his sack!

156 MISS JULIA
Christine enters dressed for church and carrying a
hymn-book in her hand.
Julia. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms as
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 ofthe chopping-
block] My, what a mess you have made ! — What's the mean
ing of all this? And the way you shout and carry on!
Julia. 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.
Julia. You must understand me, and you must listen to me.
Christine. No, really, I don't understand this kind of
trolloping. Where are you going in your travelling-dress —
and he with his hat on — what? — What?
Julia. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you every
thing 
Christine. I don't want to know anything 
Julia. 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!
Julia. [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!
Julia. [Brightening up] But now I have got an idea, you
know. Suppose all three of us should leave — go abroad — go
to Switzerland and start a hotel together — I have money, you
know — and Jean and I could run the whole thing — and you,

MISS JULIA 157
I thought, could take charge of the kitchen — Wouldn't that
be fine! — Say yes, now! And come along with us! Then
everything is fixed ! — Oh, say yes !
[She puts her arms around Christine and pats her.
Christine. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm!
Julia. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine
— you must get out and have a look at the world. You
cannot imagine what fun it is to 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.
Julia. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel — and
I sit in the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists —
and goes out 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 their bills! And you — you will sit like a queen in the

158 MISS JULIA
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 easy [slowing down] to catch — and then we grow rich
— and we build us a villa at Lake Como — of course, it is rain
ing a little in that place now and then — but [limply] the sun
must be shining sometimes — although it looks dark — and — ¦
then — or else we can go home again — and come back — here —
or some other place 
Christine. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all that
yourself? Julia. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself?
Christine. Yes.
Julia. [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 better for you to listen a little more

MISS JULIA 159
and talk a little less. Miss Julia 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!
Jean. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a
gentleman. Christine. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the
count's 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 also. The Saviour suffered and died
on the cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believ
ing heart and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on
himself. Julia. Do you believe that, Christine?
Christine. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here,
and the faith of my childhood wliich I have kept since I was
young, Miss Julia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds
too. Julia. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if 

160 MISS JULIA
Christine. Yes, but you don't get it without the special
grace of God, and that is not bestowed on everybody 
Julia. On whom is it bestowed then?
Christine. That's just the great secret of the work of
grace, Miss Julia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but
there those that are last shall be the foremost 
Julia. 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 needle's eye than for a rich man to get into
heaven. That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going,
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!
Julia. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch! — Can you
see any way out of this, any way to end it?
Jean. [Ponders] No!
Julia. 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!
Julia. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like
this? Jean. Yes! — But please observe that I myself wouldn't
do it, for there is a difference between us.
Julia. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is
the difference?
Jean. It is the same — as — that between man and woman.
Julia. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I can
not!— My father couldn't either, that time he should have
done it.

MI-SS JULIA 161
Jean. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his
revenge first.
Julia. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself
again, through me.
Jean. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia?
Julia. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too-
I think I must 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
thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion that
didn't come from my mother; and now this last — this about
all human creatures being equal — I got that from him, my
fianoS — whom I call a scoundrel for that reason ! How can it
be my own fault? To put the blame on Jesus, as 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 • Julia
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.
Julia. Now he has been to the chiffonier!
Jean. It is Jean, your lordship ! [Listening again, the specta
tors being unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lord
ship! [Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening]

162 MISS JULIA
In a minute, your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an
hour! Julia. [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.
Julia. 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 can't either — I don't
understand — It is just as if this coat here made a — I cannot
command you — and now, since I've heard the count's voice — ¦
now — I can't quite explain it — but — Oh, that damned
menial is back in my spine again. I believe if the count
should come down here, and if he should tell me to cut my
own throat — I'd do it on the spot !
Julia. 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 — or — have you ever been to
a show and seen one who could hypnotize people?
Jean makes a sign of assent.
Julia. 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.
Julia. [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 —
andyour face is alumpof white ashes. [The sunlight has reached

MISS JULIA 163
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.
Julia. [Awake] 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 wait —
Miss Julia — I know! You are no longer among the foremost
— now when you are among the — last!
Julia. That's right. I am among the last of all : I am the
very last. Oh! — But now I cannot go — Tell me once
more that I must go!
Jean. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot!
Julia. 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 is somebody be
hind it — a hand that makes it move — and something 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!
Julia goes firmly out through the door.
Curtain.

THE STRONGER

INTRODUCTION

Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The
Stronger." He called it a "scene." It is a mere incident —
what is called a "sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what
the French so aptly have named a "quart d'heure." And
one of the two figures in the cast remains silent throughout
the action, thus turning the little play practically into a
monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensity which we
have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics of
Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with men
tal conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may
be seen to change while we are watching. Three life stories
are laid bare during the few minutes we are listening to the
seemingly aimless, yet so ominous, chatter of Mrs. X. — and
when she sallies forth at last, triumphant in her sense of pos
session, we know as much about her, her husband, and her
rival, as if we had been reading a three-volume novel about
them. Small as it is, the part of Mrs. X. would befit a "star," but
an actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb
part of Miss Y. One thing is certam : that the latter char
acter has few equals in its demand on the performer's tact
and skill and imagination. This wordless opponent of Mrs.
X. is another of those vampire characters which Strindberg
was so fond of drawing, and it is on her the limelight is
directed with merciless persistency. 167

168 THE STRONGER
"The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of
the collection of miscellaneous writings which their author
named "Things Printed and Unprinted." The present Eng
lish version was made by me some years ago — in the sum
mer of 1906 — when I first began to plan a Strindberg edi
tion for this country. At that time it appeared in the literary
supplement of the New York Evening Post.

THE STRONGER
A SCENE 1890

PERSONS
Mrs. X., an actress, married.
Miss Y., an actress, unmarried.

THE STRONGER SCENE
A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron,
a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.
Mrs. X. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a
pretty Japanese basket on her arm.
Miss Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is
reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she
exchanges it for a new one.
Mrs. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on
Christmas Eve as lonely as a poor bachelor.
Miss Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods,
and resumes her reading.
Mrs. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this — alone —
alone in a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It
makes me as sad as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once
in a restaurant — the bride was reading a comic paper and the
groom was playing billiards with the witnesses. Ugh, when
it begins that way, I thought, how will it end? Think of it,
playing billiards on his wedding day! Yes, and you're going
to say that she was reading a comic paper — that's a different
case, my dear.
A Waitress brings a cup of chocolate, places it before
Mrs. X., and disappears again.
Mrs. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays
a number of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my
tots. [Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is
171

172 THE STRONGER
to have it. She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you
see? Fine, is it not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl.
[Loads the pistol and pops it at Miss Y.
Miss Y. starts as if frightened.
Mrs. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was
going to shoot you, did you? Really, I didn't think you
could believe that of me. If you were to shoot me — well,
that wouldn't surprise me the least. I've got in your way
once, and I know you'll never forget it — but I couldn't help
it. You still think I intrigued you away from the Royal
Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind— although you
think so. But is doesn't matter what I say, of course — you
believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered
slippers] Well, these are for my hubby — tulips — I've embroid
ered them myself. Hm, I hate tulips — and he must have
them on everything.
Miss Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of
mingled sarcasm and curiosity.
Mrs. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small
feet Bob has. See? And you should see him walk — elegant!
Of course, you've never seen him in slippers.
Miss Y. laughs aloud.
Mrs. X. Look here — here he comes.
[Makes the slippers walk across the table.
Miss Y. laughs again.
Mrs. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just
like this: "Blame that cook who can't learn how to make
coffee." Or: "Theidiot — now that girl has forgotten to fix my
study lamp again." Then there is a draught through the floor
and his feet get cold : Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked
idiots don't even know enough to keep the house warm."
[She rubs the sole of one slipper against the instep of the
other.

THE STRONGER 173
Miss Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.
Mrs. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his
slippers — Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well,
perhaps it is not right to be making fun of one's own husband.
He's pretty good for all that — a real dear little hubby, that's
what he is. You should have such a husband — what are you
laughing at? Can't you tell? Then, you see, I know he is
faithful, i Yes, I know, for he has told me himself — what in '
the world makes you giggle like that? J That nasty Betty
tried to get him away from me while I was on the road — can
you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd have
scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done
if I had been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad
Bob told me all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from
somebody else. [Pause] And just think of it, Betty was nfit
the only one! I don't know why it is, but all women seem
to be crazy after my husband. It must be because they
imagine his government position gives him something to say
about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it yourself —
you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't trust
you very far — but I know he never cared for you — and then
I have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him.
Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed
manner.
Mrs. X. Amelia, spend the evening with us, won't you?
Just to show that you are not angry — not with me, at least.
I cannot tell exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant
to have you — you — for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in
your way that time [rallentando] or — I don't know — really, I
don't know at all 
Pause. Miss Y. gazes searchingly at Mrs. X.
Mrs. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our
acquaintance — why, I was afraid of you when I first met you ;

174 THE STRONGER
so afraid that I did not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't
matter where I tried to go — I always found myself near you.
f I didn't have the courage to be your enemy — and so I became
I your friend. But there was always something discordant in
the air when you called at our home, for I saw that my hus
band didn't like you — and it annoyed me — just as it does
when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make hini
appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him —
not until you were engaged. Then you two became such fast
friends that it almost looked as if you had not dared to show
your real feelings before, when it was not safe — and later-
let me see, now! I didn't get jealous — strange, was it not?
And I remember the baptism — you were acting as godmother,
and I made him kiss you — and he did, but both of you looked
terribly embarrassed — that is, I didn't think of it then — or
afterwards, even — I never thought of it — till — now! [Rises
impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have not
uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on
talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and
your eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were
lying in me like silk in a cocoon — thoughts — bad thoughts
maybe — let me think. Why did you break your engagement?
Why have you never called on us afterward? Why don't you
want to be with us to-night?
Miss Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.
Mrs. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All
js clear to me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes!
Everything fits together now. Shame on you! I don't
want to sit at the same table with you. [Moves her things to an
other table] That's why I must put those hateful tulips on his
slippers— because you love them. [Throws the slippers on the
floor] That's why we have to spend the summer in the moun
tains—because you can't bear the salt smell of the ocean;

THE STRONGER 175
that's why my boy had to be called Eskil — because that was
your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour,
and read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink
your drinks — this chocolate, for instance; that's why — great
heavens! — it's terrible to think of it — it's terrible! Every
thing was forced on me by you — even your passions. Your
soul bored itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate
and ate, and burrowed and burrowed, till nothing was left
but the outside shell and a little black dust. I wanted to run
away from you, but I couldn't. You were always on hand
like a snake with your black eyes to charm me— I felt how my
wings beat the air only to drag me down — I was in the water,
with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my
arms, the further down I went — down, down, till I sank to„
the bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to
catch me with your claws — and now I'm there! Shame on
you! How I hate you, hate you, hate you! But you^^you
just sit there, silent and calm and indifferent, whether the
moon is new or full; whether it's Christmas or mid-summer;
whether other people are happy nr unhappy. You are in
capable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a
cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there! — you can't \
drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, buttyou can out- 4
wait it.\ Here you sit in this corner — do you know they've
nicknamed it "the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you
read the papers to see if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody
is about to be discharged from the theatre. Here you watch
your victims and calculate your chances and take your trib
utes. Poor Amelia! Do you know, I pity you all the same,
for I know you are unhappy — unhappy as one who has been
wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought
to be angry with you, but really I can't — you are so small after
all— and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least.

176 THE STRONGER
What does it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else
taught me to drink chocolate — what of that? [Takes a spoon
ful of chocolate; then sententiously] They say chocolate is very
wholesome. And if I have learned from you how to dress —
tant mieuxl — it has only given me a stronger hold on my hus
band — and you have lost where I have gained. Yes, judging
by several signs, I think you have lost him already. Of
course, you meant me to break with him — as you did, and as
you are now regretting — but, you see, I never would do that.
It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. (And why should
I take only what nobody else wants? |^£rhaps, after all, I am
the stronger now/^Tou never got anything from me; you
merely gave — and thus happened to me what happened to
the thief — I had what you missed when you woke up. How
explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved
worthless and useless? You were never able to keep a man's
love, in spite of your tulips and your passions — and I could;
you could never learn the art of living from the books — as I
learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your
father's name. And why do you keep silent always and every
where — silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you
were so strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had
anything to say — because you were unable to think! [Rises
and picks up the slippers] I'm going home now — I'll take the
tulips with me — your tulips. You couldn't learn anything
from others; you couldn't bend — and so you broke like a dry
stem — and I didn't. Thank you, Amelia, for all your in
structions. I thank you that you have taught me how to
love my husband. Now I'm going home — to him! [Exit.]
Curtain.

CREDITORS

INTRODUCTION
This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at
the head of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-
naturalistic period, the other two being "The Father" and
"Miss Julia." It is, in many ways, one of the strongest he
ever produced. Its rarely excelled unity of construction, its
tremendous dramatic tension, and its wonderful psychological
analysis combine to make it a masterpiece.
In Swedish its name is "Fordringsagare." This indefinite
form may be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used
except as a plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly
clear that the proper translation of its title is "Creditors,"
for under this aspect appear both the former and the present
husband of Tekla. One of the main objects of the play is to
reveal her indebtedness first to one and then to the other
of these men, while all the time she is posing as a person of
original gifts.
I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote
this play — and bear in mind that this happened only a year
before he finally decided to free himself from an impossible
marriage by an appeal to the law — believed Tekla to be fairly
representative of womanhood in general. The utter unreason
ableness of such a view need hardly be pointed out, and I shall
waste no time on it. A question more worthy of discussion
is whether the figure of Tekla be true to life merely as the
picture of a personality — as one out of numerous imaginable
179

tooI1!

180 CREDITORS
variations on a type decided not by sex but by faculties and
qualities. And the same question may well be raised in re
gard to the two men, both of whom are evidently intended to
win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger than
himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and hu
miliating circumstances.
Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a Tekla can be
found in the flesh — and even if found, she might seem t
exceptional to gain acceptance as a real individuality,
must be remembered, however, that, in spite of his avowed
realism, Strindberg did not draw his men and women in the
spirit generally designated as impressionistic; that is, with
the idea that they might step straight from his pages into life
^and there win recognition as human beings of familiar aspect.
[ His realism is always mixed with idealism; his figures are
always "doctored," so to speak. And they have been thus
treated in order to enable their creator to drive home the
particular *r-„\\, T^ fa jint.thpn concerned with.)
Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what
may be. designated as«"pure cultures" of xertain human
qualities.) But these he took great pains totarrange in their
proper pswh"lf>'j;'pTli1 «<»ttl'nff , for mental and moral qualities,
like everything else, jun in grnupn thnt-are more or less har
monious, if not exactly homogeneous/} The man with a single
quality, like Moli^re's Harpagon, was much too primitive and
crude for Strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in
his preface to "Miss Julia." When he wanted to draw the
genius of greed, so to speak, he did it by setting it in the
midst of related qualities of a kind most likely to be attracted
by it.
Tekla is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally cor
related mental and moral qualities and functions and tenden
cies — of a personality built up logically around a dominant

INTRODUCTION 181
central note. There are within all of us many personalities,
some of which remain for ever potentialities. But it is con
ceivable that any one of them, under circumstances different
from those in which we have been living, might have developed
into its severely logical consequence — or, if you please, into\
a human being that would be held abnormal if actually en- /
countered. '
This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time
and again, both in his middle and final periods, in his novels
as well as in his plays. In all of us a Tekla. an Adolph. a
Gustav — or a Jean and a Miss Julia — lie morfcor less dormant.
And if we search our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can
only be an admission that+-had the needed set of circum
stances been provided — we might have come unpleasantly
close to one of those Strindbergian* creatures which we are
now inclined to reject as unhuman.l
Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great
Swedish dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How
could it otherwise happen that so many critics, of such widely
differing temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as
springing from a study of his work: on one side an active
resentment, a keen unwillingness to be interested; on the
other, an attraction that would not be denied in spite of reso
lute resistance to it! For Strindberg does hold us, even when
we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar with the
conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a para
dox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings
provide us with something thatfcur minds instinctively recog- $
nise as true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable
to the art of living. 1
There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's
is only one/of them — and not the one commonly employed
nowadays. ( Its main fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual,

182 CREDITORS
too abstract.) For while Strindberg was intensely emotional,
and while this fact colours all his writings, he could only
express himself through his reason. An emotion that would
move. another man to murder would precipitate Strindberg
into/ merciless analysis of his own or somebody else's mental
and moral make-up. ) At any rate, I do not proclaim his way
of presenting truth /as the best one of all available. But
I suspect that this decidedly strange way of Strindberg's
— resulting in such repulsively superior beings as Gustav,
or in such grievously inferior ones as Adolph — may come
nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways
of much mpre plausible writers. This does not need to im
ply that the future Jwill imitate Strindberg. But it Inay
ascertain what he aimed at doing, and then do it with a
degree of perfection which he, the pioneer, could never hope
to attain.l

CREDITORS
A TRAGICOMEDY 1889

CREDITORS
Adolph and Gustav, the latter seated on the sofa by the table
to the right.
Adolph. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling
stand; his crutches are placed beside him] — and for all this I
have to thank you !
Gustav. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense!
Adolph. Why, certainly! During the first days after my
wife had gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but
long for her. It was as if she had taken away my crutches
with her, so that I couldn't move from the spot. When I had
slept a couple of days, I seemed to come to, and began to pull
myself together. My head calmed down after having been
working feverishly. Old thoughts from days gone by bobbed' ,
up again. (The desire to work and the instinct for creation
came back) My eyes recovered their faculty of quick and
straight vision — and then you showed up.
Gustav. I admit you were in a miserable condition when
I first met you, and you had to use your crutches when you
walked, but this is not to say that my presence has been the
cause of your recovery. You needed a rest, and you had a
craving for masculine company.
Adolph. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say.
Once I used to have men for friends, but I thought them super-l,
fluous after I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one
I had chosen. Later I was drawn into new circles and made i
lot of acquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them — shd
wanted to keep me to herself: worse still — she wanted also
185

186

CREDITORS

But I- was

77 to keep my friends to herself. And so I was left alone with
my own jealousy.
Gustav. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that
kind of disease.
Adolph. I was afraid of losing her, — and I tried to prevent
it. There is nothing strange in that.
that_she might be deceiving me 
- GustSv. No, lllal's what married men are never afraid of.
- t Adolph. Ycu^icn'tit-qaeer? What I really feared was that
her jjjendswould get such an influence over her that they
•jin toexercise souk, kind tri indirect powerMUl mu ~*

would and that is something 1 couldn't bear.
Gustav. So your ideas don't agree — yours and your wife's?
Adolph. Seeing that- you have heard so much already, I
may as well tell you everything. My wife has an independent
nature^ what are you smiling at?
Gustav. Go on!' She has-eir-iirekgendent nature 
Adolph. WhirhratiTiot. accept anything"]
Gustav. But fromevervbodv else. ^
Adolph. [After a pau*t] V'Us.1 I And it looked as if she
especially hated my ideas because they were mine, and not
because there was anything wrong about them. For it used
to happen quite often that she advanced ideas that had once
been mine, and that she stood up for them as her own. Yes,
it even happened that friends of mine gave her ideas which
they had taken directly from me, and then they seemed all
fright. Everything was all right except what came from me.
\ Gustav. Which means that you are not entirely happy?
Adolph. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted,
¦wnd I have nevel wanlud anybody else.
r Gustav. And you have never wanted to be free?
Adolph.. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes
I have imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But

CREDITORS 187
the moment she leaves me, I begin to k>ng for her — long for
her as for my own arms and legs. It is queerthat sometimes
I have a feeling l.lm.l. )Jn; in unlliiiiM in In m^lf, h|,it_only a part
of myself— a,n organ that can taVp gyav with it mv will, my
ittV d"-ir"_ H liirr, j(t nntrmr ilmrW^as if I had deposited-
Gustav. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is
just what has happened.
Adolph. How could it be so? Is she not an independent
being, with thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was
nothing^ rnil4.pi an artist whom she undertook to educate.
Gustav. But later you developed her thoughts and edu
cated her, didn't you?
Adolph. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. j ^
Gustav. Yes, isn't it strange that her "aadjiarifig" seamed
to fall off after her first book — or that it failed to improve, at
least? But that first time she had a subject which wrote
itself — for I understand she used her former husband for a
model. You never knew him, did ypt>? .They say he.was an
idiot, 4i«*f -u ^iz&pr*> <uoSur-
Adolph. I never knew him, as he was away for six months
at a time. But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by
her pteteK&-e£&Hi. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the
picture was correct.
Gustav. I do! — But why did she ever take him?
Adolph. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of
course, you never do get acquainted until afterward!
Gustav. And for that reason one ought not to marry until
— afterward. — And he was a tyrant, of course?
Adolph. Of course?
Gustav. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way]
And you not the least.

188 CREDITORS
Adolph. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases 
Gustav. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up,
could you? But do you like her to stay away whole nights?
Adolph. No, foolly, I don't.
Gustav. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to
tell the truth, it would only make you ridicfclous to like it.
Adolph. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous^bccause he
rasts his wife?
X^-Gust^? Of_course he can. And :t'° just. Wnflt you arp.
already— and thoroughly at that!
Adolph. [Convulsively\ 11 It's what I dread mostofall^.
and there's going to be a changar ' """
Gustav. Don't get excited now — or you'll have another
attack. Adolph. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all
Gustav. Yes, why? Well, it^s-notk4B^tfeirt-~eeneerns~yeu,
but that's the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out
1 ' wiy, the mishap has already occurred.
Jr Adolph. What mishap?
« .^Gustav. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she
i/took him only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have
' freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon — or what
we call a husband.
Adolph. Of course not.
Gustav. And now you are the chaperon.
Adolph. I?
Gustav. Since you are her husband.
Adolph keeps a preoccupied silence.
Gustav. Am I not right?
""" Adolph. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman
for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relation
ship with her, and then — then you begin to think — and there

CREDITORS 189
you are!— Gustav, you are my friend. The only male friend
I have. During this last week you have given me courage
to live again. It is as if your &wn magnetism had been poured 5
Jntojae. Like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my J
head and wound up the spring again. Can't you hear, your-^i2
self, how I think more clearly and speak more to the point?
And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had recovered
its ring.
Gustav. So it seems to me also. And why is that?
Adolph. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to
lower your voice in talking to women. I know at least that
Tekla always1 used to accuse me of shouting.
Gustav. And so you toned down your voice and accepted
the -rule ok-tke slipper-? *X,j ^4ju^i.l^ 'V lo* CV^>-ti. *"»<
Adolph. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some
reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk
of something else! — What was I saying? — Yes, you came here,
and you enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course,
for some time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in
painting, as it didn't seem to offer me the proper medium
for the expression of what I wanted to bring out. But when
you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting
must fail as a timely outlet for the creative instinct, then I
saw the light at last — and I realised that hereafter it would
not be possible for me to express myself by means of colour
only. Gustav. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on
painting— that you may not have a relapse?
Adolph. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself . When
I went to bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argu
ment point by point, and I knew you had it right. But when
I woke up from a good night's sleep and my head was clear
again, then it came over me in a flash that you might be mis-

190 CREDITORS
taken after all. And I jumped out of bed and got hold of my
brushes and paints — but it was no use ! Every trace of illu-
quak-ed at the thought of having believed^-and-having-made
others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but
a painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it
was just as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to
become a child again.
GusTAV.j^nd then you saw that the realistic tendency of
7 our day, its craving for actuality and tangibility, rnuld only
find its proper form injjculpture^. which gives you body, ex

tension in all three dimensions  t^j. Cm wftv
Adolph. [Vaguely] The three dimensions — $1 yes, body.

/

Gustav. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or
rather, you have been one all your life, but you had gone
astray, and nothing was needed but a guide to put you on the
l right road — Tell me, do you experience supreme joy now
"when you are at work?
Adolph. Now I am living !
Gustav. May I see what you are doing?
dolph. A female figure.
ustav. \^hout a iBodel? And so lifelike attest!
Adolph. [Apatheticatty\ «3£g§, but it resembles somebody.
It is remarkable that this woman seems to have become a
hart nf my bpdv as I of hers.
Gustav. W*eH, Xharsnot so very remarkable. Do you
know what transfusion is?
Adolph. Of blood? Yes.
Gustav. "&ad you seem to have bled yourself a little too
much. When I look at the figure here I comprehend several
things which I merely guessed before. You have loved her
tremendously! ~~^

CREDITORS 191
Adolph. iSgapto such an extent that I couldn't tell whether ,
she^was I or I sfie. When she is smiling, 1 smile also. When J
she is weeping, I weep. And when she — «ao-you- imagine
anything" like-4%? — when she was giving life to our child — I
felt the birth pangs within myself.
Gustav. ©u yuu" know, my dear friend — I hate to speak of/
it, but you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy, c
Adolph. [Agitated] I! How can you tell?
Gustav. Because I have watched the symptoms in a
younger brother of mine who had been worshipping Venus)
a little too excessively.
Adolph. How — how did it show itself — that thing you
spoke of? [During the following passage Gustav speaks with great
animation, andiAoohpn listens so intently that, un
consciously, he imitates many of Gustav's gestures.
Gustav. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel
strong enough I won't inflict a description of it on you.
Adolph. [Nervously] Yes? go right on — jtwt go on !
Gustav. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent J
little creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with J
the face of a child and the pure soul of an angel. But-never- |
tireless -she managed to usurp the male prerogative  — ¦»
Adolph. What is that?
Gustav. Tjut'gt""*i "* course. And" with the result that ~~
the angpl iTPgrly_rflrr''prl -Kim_nff tp heaven — But first he had |
to be put on the cross and made to feel the nails inhi's flesh.
It was horrible!
^-Adolph. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened?
Gustav. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting
together talking, he and I — and when I had been speaking for
a while his face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs
would grow stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the

192

w

palm/of his hands — like this. [He illustrates the movement and
it is imitated by Adolph] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and
ae began to chew — like this. [He chews, and again Adolph
imitates him] The saliva was rattling in his throat. His chest
' was squeezed together as if it had been closed in a vice. The
pupils of his eyes flickered like gas-jets. His.iQiig.ue beat-the
„sali.va.into a lather, and he sankXslowly — down — backward —
into the chair — as if he weTrt!rowning\ And then-
Adolph. [In a whisper] Sv
Gustav. And then — Aje-you-notJeeling-well?- &mj CmJUj ',
Adolph. No.
Gustav. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now.
-A"Bd- we'll talk of something else.
Adolph. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on!
Gustav. Well — when he came to he couldn't remember
anything *at all. He had simply lost consciousness,. Has that
ever happened to you? <^Yv M""*
Adolph. Yes, I have had attacks of veeMgo now and then,
but my physician says it's only anaemia.
Gustav. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But,
believe me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of
yourself.
'Jr\ Adolph. What can I do? /
Gustav. To begin with, you will have to/observe complete
jsabsi&ience. 1*aj7 v.*t*«».. /
Adolph. For how long?
^ Gustav. For hplt a year at least. _
a^ Adolph. I-esuM»et doit. That would upset our married
life" ^' -.. Ci&.
Gustav. Good-bye to you then! "I U, t'h. &U u^ *«** r
Adolph. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it!
Gustav. Can you not sayg^our own life? — But tell me,

CREDITORS 193
as you have already given me so much of your confidence — is \
there no other canker, no secret wound, that troubles you?/'
For "it isrvery-TaTeHx) find-only one cause of discord, as life is
so-fulhrf variety and so fruitful in chances for false relation
ships. Is there not a corpse in your cargo that you are trying
to hide from yourself? — For instance, you said a minute ago
that you have a child which has been left in other people's
care. Why don't you keep it with you?
Adolph. My wife doesn't want us to do so.
Gustav. And her reason? Speafcup_now_!
Adolph. Because, when it was about three years old^i
began to look like him, her former husband.
Gustav. Well? Have you seen herformer husband?
Adolph. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at
a very poor portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the
slightest resemblance.
Gustav. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and,
besides, he might have changed considerably since it was
made. However, I hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in
you? Adolph. Not at all. The child was born a year(after our
marriage, and the husband was abroad when I first met _
Tekla — it happened right here, in this very house even, and
that's why we come here every summer.
Gustav. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion.
And you wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself
anyhow, for the children of a widow who marries again often
show a likeness to her dead husband. It^-^MHjejgfigrfjfP
course, and that's why they used to burn aU^todojEs' in
India, as you know.— But _ tell me: have you ever felt
jealous of him — of his memory? Would it not sicken you
to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on ^
your Tekla, us^ihewofiowe" instead of "I"? — We! Cf

(194

P" Adolph. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that
_jery thought.
> ^ OTTgTijrjynpra-prTtEis^nd you'll never get rid of it. There
are-dKeerds4»fniS ltf ft whie)Vea»?t8v«r be reduced to harmony.^
For this reason you had better put (wax : ip?your ears and go to v
work. If- you work, and grow old,-and-pile- masses of new im- ^

press ions on the hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet inthe
hold. -v

^

Adolph. Pardon me for interrupting you, but — it is wo
derful how you resemble Tekla now and then while you are^
talking. You have a way of blinking one eye as if you were
taking aim with a gun.^and your eyes have the same influence Ij
on me as hers have at times. (U!
Gustav. No, really? "j
Adolph. And now you said that "no, really" in the same\^
indifferent way that she does. She also has the habit of say- ^
ing "nOgTeally" quite often.
^ Gustav/ Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all
. human beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it
%T wiU-be-interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if
rwhat you say is true.
Adolph. And do you know, she never takes an expression
from me. She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and
I have never caught her using any of-ffl^'ges tures. And
> yet people as a rule develop what is called "marital resem-
f\blance."iA Gustav. And do you know why this has not happened in
j^your case? — That woman has never loved you.
v Adolph. What do you mean?

Gustav. I hope you wil

1

•woman's love consists, in {aking.'^yT^e:
| whom she takes nothing
lever loved you!

excuse what I am saying — but
and one from
not havener love. She has

CREDITORS 195
Adolph. Don't you think her capable of loving more than
once? Gustav. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once.
Then our eyes are opened once for all. You have never been
deceived, and so you had better beware of those that have.
They are dangerous,< I-fceH-yew.
Adolph. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I
feel as if _sometWg_WCTe bemg_jeyered_jvithin me, but I
cannot^hjrdp-it. And this cutting brings a ,certain.jelief , too.
For it means the pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.
— She has never loved me! — Why, then, did she ever take
me? Gustav. Tell me first how she came to take you, and
whether it was you who took her or she who took you?
Adolph. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all ! — How did
it happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day.
Gustav. Would you like to have me tell you how it did
happen? Adolph. That's more than you can do.
Gustav. Oh, by using the information about yourself and
your wife that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct
the whole event. Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispas
sionate tone, almost humorously] The husband had gone abroad
to study, and she was alone. At first her freedom seemed
rather pleasant. Then came a sense of vacancy, for I pre
sume she was pretty empty_wlje.n she had lived by herself
for a fortnight. Then he appeared, and by and by the
vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one
seemed to fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at
a distance — you know the law about the square of the dis
tance? But when they felt their passions stirring, then came
fear — of themselves, of their consciences, of him. For protec
tion thev played brother and sister. And the more their

196 CREDITORS
1 feelings smacked of the flesh, the more they tried to make
llJieir relationship appeal1 ayiiituul. ^
Adolph. Brother and sister? How could you know that?
Gustav. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing
papa!amL mamma, but when they grow up they play brother
and sister — in order to hide what should be hidden ! — And then
took the vow of chastity — and then they played hide-
and-seek — until they got in a dark corner where they were
sure of not being seen by anybody. [With mock severity]
But they felt tliat JJip™» -aff^ rrftf. whose pyp rparhpd thprn in
l' the darkness — and they grew frightened— and their fright
. .raised the spectre of the absenj one — his figure began to
if/assume immense proportions-fit became metamorphosed:
Xnr-npd jntn a nightmare tbiti H-stii-i"^ tbfiir. amorous slum-
S bers; a<CTeditM^H7h*>-faiOefeeTd' at all doors. Ikea-they-saw
^ fflfPBraCli Eallld"B?rweeu their own as These sneaked toward
eatSa. other, across the table; and they heard his grating
voice through that - stillness of the night that should have
een, broken -.only by^the-beating of their own pulse^. He
did not prevent them from possessing each other but hevrf
B&spoiled their happiness. And when- they became aware oS
' his /invisible interference with their happiness} when they
took flight at last-+a vain flight from the memories that pur-l
v .sued them, from the liability they had left behind J from the"
p public opinion they could not face — and when they found
} ' pihemfselves without the strength needed to carry their own
. pint, then they had to send out into the fields for a scapegoat
"¦6 be sacrificed. They were free-thinkers, but they did not
have the courage to step forward and speak openly to him the
ords: "We love each other!" To sum it up, they were cow-
ds, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is that right?
olph. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that
she filled my head with new thoughts 

CREDITORS 197
Gustav. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could
she not educate the other man also — into a free-thinker?
Adolph. Oh, he was an idiot!
Gustav. Oh, of course — he was an idiot! But that's
rather an ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his
idiocy seems mainly to have consisted in failure to understand
her. Pardon me a question : but is your wife so very profound
after all? I have discovered nothing profound in her writings.
Adolph. Neither have I. — But then I have also to confess
a certain difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs
of our brain wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if some
thing went to pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her.
Gustav. Maybe you are an idiot, too?
Adolph. I don't think so! And it seems to me all the time
as if she were in the wrong — ¦ Would you care to read this
letter, for instance, which I got to-day?
[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book. V
Gustav. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwrit-N
ing seems strangely familiar. '
Adolph. Rather m^sculiiw, don't you think? If*
Gustav. Well, I know at least one man who writes that
kind of hand — She addresses you as "brother." Are you
still playing comedy to each other? And do you never permit
yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking to each other?
Adolph. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost
in that way. \
Gustav. And is it to make you respect her that she calls
herself your sister?
Adolph. I want to respect her more than myself. I want
her to be the better part of my o^uself. ^
"Gustav. Why don't you be that better part yourself
Would-it-Jbe I'ess-^oU.V-IAlilenL than lo permit somebody else-^o

198 CREDITORS
fill the -part? Do you want to place yourself beneath your
wife? Adolph. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite rearh-
t ing up to her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and
now I enjoy hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in
L skill and daring. To begin with, I merely pretended to be
awkward and timid in order to raise her courage. And so it
nded with, my actually being her inferior, more of a coward

than she. \£t almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken
my courage away from me.)
Gustav. Have you taught her anything else?
Adolph. Yes — but it must stay between us — I have
taught her how to spell, which she didn't know before. But
now, listen : when she took charge of our domestic correspon
dence, I grew out of the habit of writing. And think of it:
as the years passed on, lack of practice made me forget a little
here and there of my grammar. But do you think she recalls
that I was the one who taught her at the start? No — and so
I am "the idiot," of course.
Gustav. So you are an idiot already?
s*' Adolph. Oh, it's justTa jSEGTof course !
Gustav. Of course ! BuTtius is clear cannibalism, I think.
Do you know what's behind that sort of practice? (The
savages eat their enemies in order to acquire their useful
qualities. And tnl'° wnmaj^Jja.s.,hepn eating your soul, your
courage^ your Jsnoffiledge  f
Adolph. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write
-^hg_ first book 
Gustav. [Making a face] Oh-h-h!
Adolph. It was I who praised her, even when I found her
stuff rather poor. It was I who brought her into hterary cir
cles where-she-eould gather-honey from our most ornamental
literary, flowers. It was I who used my personal influence

CREDITORS 199
to keep the critics from her throat. It was I who blew her
faith in herself into flame; blew on it until I lost my own
breath. I_gave, gave, gave— until I had nothing. left for mv-
self. Do you know — I'll tell you everything now — do youf
'know I really believe — and the human soul is so peculiarly!
constituted — I believe that when my artistic successes seemed I
about to put her in the shadow — as well as her reputation — 1
then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and J j
by making my own art seem inferior to hers. IteHsed-so-lorrg
about-the-insignificant part pla-yed-by painting on the whole —
talked- so long about it, and invented- so many reasons to prove
what I said, that one fine day I found myself convinced of its
futility. So all you had to do was to breathe on a house of
ca*ds. Gustav. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the be- V
ginning of our talk — that she had never taken anything from
you. Adolph. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing
more to take.
Gustav. The snake being full, it vomits now.
Adolph. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more
from me than I have been aware of?
Gustav. You can be sure of that. She took when you were i
not looking, and that is called theft.
Adolph. Perhaps she never did educate me?
Gustav. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her
trick to make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how
she set about educating you?
Adolph. Oh, first of all — hm!
Gustav. Well?
Adolph. Well, I 
Gustav. No, we were speaking of her.
Adolph. Really, I cannot tell now.

200 CREDITORS
Gustav. Do you see!
Adolph. However — she devoured my faith also, and so I
sank further and further down, until you came along and
gave me a new faith.
Gustav. [Smiling] In sculpture?
Adolph. [Doubtfully] Yes.
Gustav. And have you really faith in it? In this ab
stract, antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of
civilisation? Do you believe that you can obtain your effect
by pure form — by the three dimensions — tell me? That you
can reach the practical mind of our own day, and convey an
illusion to it, without the use of colour — without colour, mind
you — do you really believe that?
Adolph. [Crushed] No!
Gustav. Well, I don't either.
Adolph. Why, then, did you say you did?
, Gustav. Because I pitied you.
Adolph. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt!
Finished ! — And worst of all: not even she is left to me!
Gustav. Well, what could you do with her?
Adolph. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I

became an atheiatj.-,an,,jabi£ctJhat might help me tn pypmisp
jifly sense of veneration.
Gustav. Bury your sense of veneration and let something
else grow on top of it. A lit,tlp whnlgsome scorn, for instance.
Adolph. I cannot live without having sometKng to re
spect 
Gustav. Slave!
Adolph. — without a woman to respect and worship!
Gustav. Oh, Hell! Then you had better take back your
God — if you needs must have something to kow-tow to!
You're a fine atheist, with all that superstition about woman
still in you! You're a fine free-thinker, who dare not think

CREDITORS 201
freely about the dear ladies! Do you know what that incom
prehensible, sphinx-like, profound something in your wife
really is? It is sheer stupidity !— Look here: she cannot
even distinguish between th and t. And that, you know,
means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When
you look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works
inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch. — Nothing but the
skirts — that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pain-of
moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober
look at her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find\
the instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and
nothing elsef-giving you- back your-owB-woTdsr or those of }
other people— and-always m diluted- Jorm. \Have you everv
looked at a naked woman — oh yes, yes, of course! A youth
with over-developed breasts; an under-developed man; a
child that has shot up to full height and then stopped grow
ing in other respects; one who is chronically anaemic: wha;/
can you expect of such a creature? T^ '
Adolph. Supposing all that tobe true — how can it be
possible that I still think her rfiy equafjl
Gustav. Hallucination — the hypnotising power of skirts!
Or — the two of you may actually have become equals. The
levelling process has been finished. Her capillarity has brought I
t-he-wsyter in-betktttbes-tothe-saine -height. — Tell me [taking
out his watch] : our talk has now lasted six hours, and your
wife ought soon to be here. Don't you think we had better
stop, so that you can get a rest? V
Adolph. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! "^
Gustav. Oh, for a little while only — and then the lady will
COme- ^M,>t..X
Adolph. Yes, she is coming! — It's all so qeeer! I long for
her, but I am afraid of ber. She pets me, she is tender to me,
but there is suffocation in her kisses — something that pulls "

202 CREDITORS
and numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched
by the clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when
it appears before the public.
Gustav. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without
being a physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is
enough to look at your latest pictures in order to see that.
Adolph. You think so? How can you see it?
Gustav. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that
the cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it
impresses me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured cheeks
were showing beneath 
Adolph. Oh, stop, stop!
Gustav. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have
you read to-day's paper?
Adolph. [Shrinking] No!
Gustav. It's on the table here.
Adolph. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold
of it] Do they speak of it there?
Gustav. Read it — or do you want me to read it to you?
Adolph. No!
Gustav. I'll leave you, if you want me to.
C Adolph. No, no, no! — I don't know — it seems as if I were
eginning to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go. — You drag
me out of the hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do
you get me on firm ice, than you knock me on the head and
shove me into the water again. As long as my secrets were my
own, I had still something left within me, but now I am quite
(empty. There is a canvas by an Italian master, showing A
scene of torture — a saint whose intestines are being torn out ]
of him and rolled on the axle of a windlass. The martyr is /
watching himself grow thinner and thinner, while the roll
on the axle grows thicker. — Now it seems to me as if you
had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you

f

CREDITORS 203
leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing )
but an empty shell behind. /
Gustav. How you do let your fancy run away with you! —
And besides, your,wife is bringing back your heart. _.
Adolph. No, Jjgt since you have burned her to ashesj
Everything is in ashes where you have passed a,lnnpf- my -a.rt~Y;
my love, my hope, my faitE"!
Gustav. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came
along. Adolph. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's
too late — JBcandJawy ! IV u.4 .jjnj^, •»
Gustav. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll
sow in the ashes.
Adolph. I hate you! I curse you!
Gustav. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left
in you. And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen
now! Do you want to listen to me, and do you want to obey
me? ^  -^-s.
Adolph. Do ^ith meTwhat you will— I'll obey you!
Gustav. [Rising] Look at me!
Adolph. [Looking at Gustav] Now you are looking at me
again with that other pair of eyes which attracts me.
Gustav. And listen to me!
Adolph. Yes^-but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any
longer: I am like an open wound and cannot bear being
touched. Gustav. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a
teacher of dead languages, and a widower — that's all! Take ,

Adolph. What terrible power there must be in you! It
feels as if I were touching an electrical generator. \
Gustav. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you
are now. — Stand up! «

204 CREDITORS
Adolph. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throw
ing his arms around the neck of Gustav] I am like a boneless
baby, and my brain seems to lie bare. .
Gustav. TakejutumAce»8&+he4oor! lA«UJt <LW>«*^'y**
Adolph. I cannot!
Gustav. Do what I ^ay, or I'll strike you!
Adolph. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying?
' 'Gustav. I'll strike you, I said.
V* Adolph. [Leaping backward in a rage] You!
I Gustav. That's it! Now you have got the blood into
your head, and your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll
give you sew&alecnimiey: where is your wife?
Adolph. Where is she?
Gustav. Yes.
Adolph. She is — at — a meeting.
Gustav. Sure?
Adolph. Absolutely!
Gustav. What kind of meeting? 5^ «^_v^ <u«>«i«ri«
Adolph. Oh^jsamelhing relating to an orphanasylum.
Gustav. Did you part as friends?
Adolph. [With some hesitation] Not as friends.
Gustav. As enemies th€n! — What did you say that pro
voked her?
Adolph. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could
you know?
Gustav. It's very simple: I possess three known factors,
and with their help I figure out the unknown one. What did
you say to her?
Adolph. I said— twg words only, but they were dreadful,
and I regret them-»=regrieF?nem"very much.
Gustav. Don't do it! Tell me now?
Adolph. I said: "Old flirt!"
Gustav. What more did you say?

CREDITORS 205
Adolph. Nothing at all.
Gustav. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it— perhaps
becausejou don't dare remember it. You have put it away
in a^ecret drajpefl but you have got to open it now!
Adolph. I can't remember!
Gustav. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought
to be ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any
more lovers!"
Adolph. Did I say that? I must have said it!— But how
can you know that I did?
Gustav. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I
came here.
Adolph. To whom?
Gustav. To four young men who formed her company.
She is already developing a taste for chaste young men, just
like  ^
Adolph. But there is nothing wrong in that?
Gustav. No more than in playing brother and sister when
you are papa- and mamma.
Adolph. So you have seen her then? \
Gustav. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when
you didn't — I mean, when you were not present. And there's Q
the reason, you see, why a husband can never really know his a
wife. Have you a portrait of her? y
Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. Thery
is a look cf aroused curiosity on his face.
Gustav. You were not present when this was taken? \
Adolph. No.
Gustav. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the \
portrait you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are J
the same, but the expression is quite different. But you don't |
see this, because your own picture of her creeps in between
your eyes and this one. Look at it now as a painter, without

206 CREDITORS
giving a thought to the original. What does it represent?
Nothing, so far as I can see, but an affected coquette inviting
somebody to come and play with her. Do you notice this
cynical line around the mouth which you are never allowed
to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking out some man
who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut low at
the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that her
sleeve has managed to slip-back from her arm? Can you see?
Gdolph. "Ses— now I see. 1
jstav. Look out, my boy!
Adolph. For what?
Gustav. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you
. she could not attract a man, you struck at what to her""
iost sacred — the one thing above aU others. If you had
told her that she wrote nothing but nonsense, she would
have laughed at your poor taste. But as it is — believe me, it
will not be her fault if her desire for revenge has not already
been satisfied.
Adolph. I must know if it is so!
Gustav. Find out!
Adolph. Find out?
Gustav. Watch — I'll assist you, if you want me to.
Adolph. As I am to die anyhow — it may as well come first
as last ! What am I to do ?
Gustav. First of all a piece of information: has your wife
any vulnerable point?
Adolph. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like
_a, cat. Gustav. There — that was the boat whistling at the landing
— now she'll soon be here.
Adolph. Then I must go down and meet her.
Gustav. No, you are to stay here. You have to be im-

CREDITORS 207
polite. If her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your
ears tingle. If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you.
Adolph. Are you so sure of that?
Gustav. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn
and run' in loops, but I'll follow. My room is next to this.
[He points to the door on the right] There I shall take up my
position and watch you while you are playing the game in
here, f But when you are done, we'll change parts: \['ll enter
the cage and do tricks with the snake while you stick to the
key-hole. Then we meet in the park to compare notes. But
keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself weakening,
knock twice on the floor with a chair.
Adolph. All right! — But don't go away. I must be sure
that you are in the next room.
Gustav. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get
scared afterward, when you watch /me dissecting a human u*"
soul and laying out its various parts on the table J They say "
it is rather hard on a beginner, but once you have seen it
done, you never want to miss it. — And be sure to remember
one thing : not a word about having met me, or having made
^any new acquaintance whatever while she was away. Not
one word! \nd I'll discover her weak point by myself. Hush,
she has arrived — she is in her room now. She's humming to
herself. That means she is in a rage! — Now, straight in the
back, please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that
she has to sit here — then I can watch both of you at the same
time. Adolph. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner — and no new
guests have arrived — for I haven't heard the bell ring. That
means we shall be by ourselves — worse luck!
Gustav. Are you weak?
Adolph. I am nothing at all! — Yes, I am afraid of what is
now coming! But I cannot keep it from coming ! The stone

208 CREDITORS
has been set rolling — and it was not the first drop of water
that started it — nor was it the last one — but all of them to
gether. Gustav. Let it roll then— ior_peace will come in no other
way. Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out]
Adolph nods back at him. Until then he has been stand
ing with the photograph in his hand. Now he tears it
up and flings the pieces under the table. Then he sits
dovm on a chair, pulls nervously at his tie, runs his
fingers through his hair, crumples his coat lapel, and
so on.
Tekla. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss;
her manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello,
little brother! How is he getting on?
Adolph. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if
in jest] What mischief have you been up to now that makes
you come and kiss me?
Tekla. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money.
Adolph. You have had a good time then?
Tekla. Very! But not exactly at that creche meeting.
That was plain piffle, to tell the truth. — But what has little
brother found to divert himself with while his Pussy was
^ away? / Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking
( for somebody or sniffing something.
Adolph. I've simply been bored.
Tekla. And no company at all?
Adolph. Quite by myself.
Tekla. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has
been sitting here?
Adolph. Over there? Nobody.
Tekla. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is

«¦)

CREDITORS 209
a hollow here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow.
Have you had lady callers?
Adolph. I? You don't believe it, do you?
Tekla. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling
the truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his con
science. Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his
head resting in her lap.
Adolph. You're a little devil — do you know that?
Tekla. No, I don't know anything at all about myself.
Adolph. You never think about yourself, do you?
Tekla. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but.
myself — I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn/
so philosophical all at once?
Adolph. Put your hand on my forehead.
Tekla. [PsaitLmg as if to ababyl. Has he got ants in his
head again? Does he WaSiTme to take them away, does he?
[Kisoeo him-on-the forehead] There now! Is it all right now?
Adolph. Now it's all right. [Pause]
Tekla. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to
make the time go? Have you painted anything?
Adolph. No, I am done with painting.
Tekla. What? Done with painting?
Adolph. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help
it that I can't paint any longer!
Tekla. What do you mean to do then?
Adolph. I'll become a sculptor.
Tekla. What a lot of brand new ideas again !
Adolph. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure
over there.
Tekla. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare! — Who
is that meant for?
Adolph. Guess!

210 CREDITORS
Tekla. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all?
Adolph. Is it like?
Tekla. How can I tell when there is no face?
Adolph. Yes, but there is so much else — that's beautiful!
Tekla. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must
keep still or I'll have to kiss him.
Adolph. [Holding her back] Now, now! — Somebody might
come! Tekla. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own hus
band, perhaps? Oh yes, that's my lawful right.
Adolph. Yes, but don't you know — in the hotel here, they
don't beheve we are married, because we are kissing each other
such a lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now
and then, for lovers are said to do that also.
Tekla. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why
can't he always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't
he try? Doesn't he want us to be happy?
Adolph. Do I want it? Yes, but 
Tekla. There we are again ! Who has put it into his head
that he is not to paint any longer?
s Adolph. Wl")7 Yff" grp "lwrvyi Jpolrinc for anmpbndy pise
r behindmetand my thoughts^ Are you jealous?
Tekla. Yes. I am. T'm afraid somebody mifrnt fakp hi™
away from me.
Adolph. Are you really afraid of that? You who know
that no other woman can take your place, and that I cannot
live without you !
Tekla. Well, I am not afraid of the women — it's youi.
friends that fill your head with all sorts of notions. Ov,**% -^
, Adolph. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are
you afraid?
Tekla. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has
been here?

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Adolph. Don't you wish me to look at you?
Tekla. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accus
tomed to look at me.
Adolph. How was I looking at you then?
Tekla. Way up under my eyelids.
Adolph. Under your eyelids — yes, I wanted to see what is
behind them.
Tekla. See all yon can ! Th,pre is nothing tha^ needs to be_,
hidden* But — you talk differently, too — you use expressions
— [studying him] you philosophise — that's what you do ! [Ap
proaches him threateningly] Who has been here?
Adolph. Nobody but my physician.
Tekla. Your physician? Who is he?
Adolph. That doctor from Stromstad.
Tekla. What's his name?
Adolph. Sjbberg.
Tekla. What did he have to say?
Adolph. He said — well — among other things he said —
that I am on the verge of epilepsy— —
Tekla. Among other things? What more did he say?
Adolph. Something very unpleasant.
Tekla. Tell me!
Adolph. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. »
Tekla. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! fThey want
to separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! J)
Adolph. You can't have understood, because there was
nothing to understand. Jwr*^
Tekla. Oh yes, I have! 1r
Adolph. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your
fear of something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what
has never existed? What is it you fear? That I mightborrow N
somebody else's ey"i"l p™1"" tn nnn ™i»«.™ are afirt-nnfcr
ai^gu seem tobg?

esp. >

212 CREDITORS
Tekla. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is
^the beast that dwells in man's soul.
Adolph. Where did you learn that? From those chaste
young men on the boat — did you?
Tekla. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be
learned from youth also.
Adolph. I think you are already beginning to have a taste
for youth?
Tekla. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you.
Do you object?
Adolph. No, but I should prefer to have no partners.
Tekla. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little
brother, that there is room in it for many more than him.
Adolph. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers.
Tekla. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled
because he is jealous — no, envious is the right word for it!
Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining
room, where Gustav is.
Adolph. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk
seriously. Tekla. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seri
ously? Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of
his head and kisses him] Smile a little— there now!
Adolph. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the 
I might almost think you knew how to use magic !
Tekla. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't
start any trouble — or I might use my magic to make him in
visible! Adolph. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla?
With the side of your face this way, so that I can put a face
on my figure.
Tekla. Of course, I will.
[Turns her head so he can see her in profile.

CREDITORS 213
Adolph. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the
figure] Don't think of me now — but of somebody else.
Tekla. I'll think of my latest conquest.
Adolph. That chaste young man?
Tekla. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest
moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach — it was so soft
and rosy that you just wanted to bite it.
Adolph. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about
the mouth.
Tekla. What expression?
Adolph. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen
before. Tekla. [Making aface] This one?
Adolph. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how
Bret Harte pictures an adulteress?
Tekla. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something.
Adolph. As a pale creature that cannot blush.
Tekla. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, the)
she must blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret
may not be allowed to see it.
Adolph. Are you so sure of that?
Tekla. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable
of bringing the blood up to her head} he cannot hope to behold
the charming spectacle. *
Adolph. [Enraged] Tekla! /
Tekla. Oh, you little ninny! I
Adolph. Tekla!
Tekla. Hg, should call her Pussy — then I might get up a
pretty littleblush for his sSEeV Does he want me to?
Adolph. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that
I could bite you!
Tekla. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!— Come!
[Opens her arms to him.

5

214 CREDITORS
Adolph. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her]
Yes, I'll bite you to death!
Tekla. [Teasingly] Look out — somebody might come!
Adolph. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in
the world if I can only have you !
Tekla. And when you don't have me any longer?
Adolph. Then I shall die!
Tekla. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you — as I
am too old to be wanted by anybody else?
Adolph. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I
take it all back now !
Tekla. Can you explain to me why you are at once so
(jealous and so cock-sure?
Adolph. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's
possible that the thought of somebody else having possessed
vou may still be gnawing within me. At times it appears to
me, as if our love were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at
self-defence, a passion kept up as a matter of honor — and I
! can't think of anything that would give me more pain than to
have him know that I am unhappy. Oh, I have never seen
| him — but the mere thought that a person exists who is waiting
^for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily calling down curses
on my head, who will roar with laughter when I perish — the
mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates
me, paralyses me!
Tekla. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do
you think I would make his prophecy eome true?
Adolph. No, I cannot think you would.
Tekla. Why don't you keep calm then?
Adolph. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry.
Why do you play that kind of game?
Tekla. It is no game. I want to be admired — that's all!
Adolph. Yes, but only by men!

CREDITORS 215

Tekla. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other
women. Adolph. Tell me, have you heard anything — from him —
recently? Tekla. Not in the last six months.
Adolph. Do you ever think of him?
Tekla. No! — Since the child died we have broken off our
correspondence. Adolph. And you have never seen him at all?
Tekla. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on
the West Coast. But why is all this coming into your head
just now? r
Adolph. I don't know. But during the last few days, while
I was alone, I kept thinking of him — how he might have felt
when he was left alone that time.
Tekla. Are you having an attack of bad conscience?
Adolph. I am. *
Tekla. You feel like a thief, do you?
Adolph. Almost!
Tekla. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as yo
steal children or chickens? And you regard me as his chatt<
or personal property. I am very much obliged to you!
Adolph. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a go>
deal more than property — for there can be no substitute
Tekla. Oh, yes! If you only heard that he had marrie
again, all these foolish notions would leave you. — Have you;
not taken his place with me?
Adolph. Well, have I? — And did you ever love him?
Tekla. Of course, I did !
Adolph. And then 
Tekla. I grew tired of him!
Adolph. And if you should tire of me also?
Tekla. But I won't!

)

216 CREDITORS
Adolph. If somebody else should turn up — one who had
all the qualities you are looking for in a man now — suppose
only — then you would leave me?
Tekla. No.
Adolph. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live
without him? Then you would leave me, of course?
Tekla. No, that doesn't follow.
Adolph. JBut you couldn't love two at the same time, could
yon? Tekla. Yes! Why not?
Adolph. That's something I cannot understand.
Tekla. But things exist although you do not understand
them. All persons are not made in the same way, you know.
Adolph. I begin to see now !
Tekla. No, really!
Adolph. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he
seems to struggle with some memory that will not come back] Do
you know, Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be pain
ful? Tekla. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue in your
mind, and one that you taught me.
Adolph. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding some
thing behind that frankness of yours.
Tekla. That's the new tactics, you know.
Adolph. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly
become offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return
home— this evening!
Tekla. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived
and I don't feel like starting on another trip.
Adolph. But I want to.
Tekla. Well, what's that to me? — You can go!
Adolph. But I demand that you take the next boat with
me!

CREDITORS 217
Tekla. Demand? — What are you talking about?

Adolph. Do you realise that you are my wife? / Q|f

^

•1

Tekla. Do you realise that you are my husband?
Adolph. Well, there's a difference between those two
things. Tekla. Oh, that's the way you are talking now! — You have
never loved me!
Adolph. Haven't I?
Tekla. No, for to love is to give. )
Adolph. To love like a man is to give; to love hke a woman
is to take. — And I have given, given, given !
Tekla. Pooh! What have you given?
Adolph. Everything!
Tekla. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have
taken it. Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts
now? And if I have taken anything, this proves only my love
for you. A woman cannot receive anything except from her
lover. Adolph. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I
have been your lover, but never your husband.
Tekla. Well, isn't that much more agreeable— to escape.n
- playinir pha.pprnr^? But if you are not satisfied with your posi
tion, (I'll send you packing, for I don't want a husband. \f
Adolph. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago,
when you began to sneak away from me like a thief with his
booty, and when you began to seek company of your own
where you could flaunt my plumes and display my gems, then
I felt like reminding you of your debt. And at once I became
a tmrihlpsomft-cred|jpr whom you wanted to get rid of. You '
wanted to repumate your own notes, and in order not to in
crease your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my safe and
began to try those of other people instead. Without having
done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband.

218 CREDITORS
(And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it
or not, as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer.
Tekla. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the
sweet littl^jdiot !/
* Adolph. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an
idiot but oneself!
Tekla. But that's what everybody thinks.
Adolph. And I am beginning to suspect that he — your
former husband— was not so much of an idiot after all.
Tekla. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with
— him?Adolph. Yes, not far from it.
Tekla. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his
acquaintance and pour out your overflowing heart to him?
What a striking picture! But I am also beginning to feel
OTrawn to him, as I am growing more and more tired of acting
"' as wetnurse./ For he was at least a man, even though he had
the fault of being married to me. J
Adolph. There, you see! But you had better not talk so
loud — we might be overheard.
Tekla. What would it matter if they took us for married
people? Adolph. So now you are getting fond of real male men
also, and at the same time you have a taste for chaste young
men? Tekla. There are no limits to what T ran Hire, ac y™, ^ay
see. My heart is open to .everybody ann1 pypryt ning fn th°
big andJJis^malVth&Jiandsome and the ugly, the new and
^the_ald — T love the adaole-Motld.
Adolph. Do you know what that means?
Tekla. No, I don't know anything at all. I just/eeZ.
Adolph. It means that old age is near.
Tekla. There you are again! Take care!

CREDITORS 219
Adolph. Take care yourself!
Tekla. Of what?
Adolph. Of the knife!
Tekla. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with
such dangerous things.
Adolph. I have quit playing.
Tekla. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll
show you that— you are mistaken. That is to say — you'll
never see it, never know it, but all the rest of the world will
know it. And you'll suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll
never have another moment's peace. You'll have the feeling
of being ridiculous, of being deceived, but you'll never get.
a.nv pmof of it. For that's what married men never se$. i
Adolph. You hate me then?
Tekla. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But
that's probably because you are nothing to me but a child./ l/
Adolph. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how
it was while the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like
an infant in arms and just cried. Then you had to sit on my
lap, and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be
your nurse; had to see that you fixed your hair before going
out; had to send your shoes to the cobbler, and see that there
was food in the house. I had to sit by your side, holding your
hand for hours at a time: you were afraid, afraid of the whole
world, because you didn't have a single friend, and because
you were crushed by the hostility of public opinion. I had
to talk courage into you until my mouth was dry and my head
ached. I had to make myself believe that I was strong. I *
had to force myself into believing in the future. And so I
brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead.
Then you admired me. Then I was the man — not that kind -j
of athlete you had just left, but the man of will-power^jfie.^
mesmerist who instilled new nervous energy into your flabby J
*  -^

<2|q CREDITORS
fir* itnuscles and charged your empty brain with a new store of
fclectricity. And then I gave you back your reputation. I
brought you new friends, furnished you with a little court of
people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let themselves
be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my house.
Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and
blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibi
tion then where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes
you were St. Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart — or little
Karin, whom King Eric loved. And I turned public attention
in your direction. I compelled the clamorous herd to see you
with my own infatuated vision. I plagued them with your
personality, forced you literally down their throats, until that
sympathy which makes everything possible became yours at
last — and you could stand on your own feet. When you
reached that far, then my strength was used up, and I col
lapsed from the overstrain — in lifting you up, I had pushed
myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an an
noyance to you at the moment when all life had just begun to
smile at you — and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your
heart, there was a secret desire to get rid of your creditor and
the witness of your rise. Your love began to change into that
of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better I accustomed my
self to the new part of little brother. Your tenderness for me
remained, and even increased, but it was mingled with a sug
gestion of pity that had in it a good deal of contempt. And
this changed into opeii scorn as my talent withered and your
own sun rose higher. VBut in some mysterious way the foun-
tainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry up when I could no
longer replenish it — or rather when you wanted to show its
independence of me. And at last both of us began to lose
ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame
on. A new victim/ For ymi are wenk, andymi-can never

CREDITORS 221
carryyour own burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked .
me for a scapegoat and doomed me to slaughter. But when
you cut my thews, you didn't realise that you were^also crip- j
pling yourself, for by this time our years of common life had |
made twins of us. You were a shoot sprung from my stem, '
and you wanted to cut yourself loose before the shoot had put
out roots of its own, and that's why you couldn't grow by
yourself. And my stem could not spare its main branch — and
so stem and branch must die together.
Tekla. What you mean with all this, of course, is that
you have written my books.
Adolph. No, that's what you want me to mean in order
to make me out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as
you do, and I spoke for something like five minutes to get in i
all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions — but/
your hand-organ has only a single note in it.
Tekla. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that
you have written my books.
Adolph. Noj- there is no summary. You cannot reduce a]
chord into a single note.. You cannot translate a varied life
into a sum of one figure. I have made no blunt statements
like that of having written your books. /
Tekla. But that's what you meant!
Adolph. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it:
Tekla. But the sum of it 
Adolph. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addi
tion. You get an endless decimal fraction for quotient when
your division does not work out evenly. I have not added
anything. Tekla. But I can do the adding myself.
Adolph. I believe it, but then I am not doing it.
Tekla. No, but that's what you wanted to do.
Adolph. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no — don't

222 CREDITORS
speak to me — you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent!
''Leave me alone! You mutilate my brain with your clumsy
pincers — you put your claws into my thoughts and tear them
to pieces !
He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight
ahead while his thumbs are bent inward against the
palms of his hands.
Tekla. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick?
Adolph motions her away.
Tekla. Adolph!
Adolph shakes his head at her.
Tekla. Adolph.
Adolph. Yes.
Tekla. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago?
Adolph. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit!
Tekla. And do you ask my pardon?
Adolph. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon — if you only
V won't speak to me!
Tekla. Kiss my hand then !
Adolph. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand — if you only
don't speak to me!
Tekla. And now you had better go out for a breath of
fresh air before dinner.
Adolph. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and
leave. j
Tekla. No! '
Adolph. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason.
Tekla. The reason is that I have promised to be at the
concert to-night.
Adolph. Oh, that's it!
Tekla. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend 
Adolph. Promised? Probably you said only that you

CREDITORS 223
might go, and that wouldn't prevent you from saying now
that you won't go.
Tekla. No, I am not like vou: I keen my word.
Adolph. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't
fravp tn ljy° "p t" oiroiy littlo wrvr^ yf. na.pppn tn dropT Jfej>
haps there is somebody who has made you promise to go.
Tekla. Yes.
Adolph. Then you can ask to be released from your prom
ise because your husband is sick.
Tekla. No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick
enough to be kept from going with me.
Adolph. AVhy do you always want to drag me along? Do
you feel safer then?
Tekla. I don't know what you mean.
Adolph. That's what you always say when you know I
mean something that — doesn't please you.
Tekla. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me?
Adolph. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again — Good-bye
for a while! Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to
the right.
Tekla is left alone. A moment later Gustav enters and
goes straight up to the table as if looking for a news
paper. He pretends not to see Tekla. -.
Tekla. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, )
is it you ?
Gustav. Yes, it's me — I beg your pardon!
Tekla. Which way did you come?
Gustav. By land. But — I am not going to stay, as 
Tekla. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't. — Well,
it was some time ago 
Gustav. Yes, some time.
Tekla. You have changed a great deal.

224 CREDITORS
y* Gustav. And you are as charming as ever. A little
^oungSB<if anything. Excuse me, however-f5 am not going
h'fospoil your happiness by my presence. JLAndif I had known
» you were here, I should never  X3* '•
Tekla. If you don't think it improper, I should like you
to stay.
Gustav. On my part there could be no objection, but I
fear — well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you.
Tekla. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for
you possess that rare gift — which was always yours — of tact
and politeness.
Gustav. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly
expect — that your husband might regard my qualities in the
same generous light as you.
Tekla. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you
in very sympathetic terms.
Gustav. Oh! — Well, everything becomes covered up by
time, like names cut in a tree — and not even dislike can main
tain itself permanently in our minds.
Tekla. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen
you. And as for me, I have always cherished a dream — that
of seeing you come together as friends — or at least of seeing
you meet for once in my presence — of seeing you shake hands
— and then go your different ways again.
Gustav. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom
I used to love more than my own life — to make sure that she
was in good hands. And although I have heard nothing but
good of him, and am familiar with all his work, I should never
theless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his
eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure Providence
has placed in his possession. In that way I hoped also to lay
J the hatred that must have developed instinctively between
us; Il wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul,

CREDITORS 225
so that I might manage to live through the rest of my sorrow
ful days. «
Tekla. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have
understood me. I thank you for it!
Gustav. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have al
ways been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My ,
monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons
— all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty.
I admit it. But you understand — you who have searched the
human soul — what it cost me to make such a confession to
myself. Tekla. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own
shortcomings — and it's not everybody that's capable of it.
[Sighs] But yours has always been an honest, and faithful,
and reliable nature — one that I had to respects— but 
Gustav. Not always — not at that time! (But suffering ¦
purifies, sorrow ennobles, and — I have suffered! J
Tekla. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can s
you? Gustav. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask _
you to forgive.
Tekla. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of
us — we who are old enough to know better!
Gustav. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you —
you grow younger every day.
He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on
the left and sits dawn on it, whereupon Tekla sits down
on the sofa.
Tekla. Do you think so?
Gustav. And then you know how to dress.
Tekla. I learned that from you. Don't you remember
how you figured out what colors would be most becoming to
me?

/

226 CREDITORS
Gustav. No.
Tekla. Yes, don't you remember — hm! — I can even recall
how you used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have
at least a touch of crimson about my dress.
Gustav. No, not angry! I was never angry with you.
Tekla. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to
//think — do you remember? For that was something I couldn't
do at all. Q&- K J>
Gustav. Of course, you could. It's something every human
being does. And you have become quite keen at it — at least
when you write. c\ ^*
Tekla. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well,
my dear Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and es
pecially in a peaceful way like this.
Gustav. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and
you had a pretty peaceful time with me.
Tekla. Perhaps too much so.
Gustav. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that
way. It was at least the impression you gave me while we
were engaged.
Tekla. Do you think one really knows what one wants at
that time? And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pre
tensions, of course.
Gustav. Well, now you must be having all the excitement
you can wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift,
and I don't think your husband can be called a sluggard.
I Tekla. You can get too much of a good thing.
Gustav. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are
still wearing the ear-rings I gave you?
Tekla. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any
quarrel between us — and then I thought I might wear them
as a token — and a reminder — that we were not enemies. And

CREDITORS 227
then, you know, it is impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings
any longer. [Takes off one of her ear-rings.
Gustav. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband
say of it?
Tekla. Why should I mind what he says?
Gustav. Don't you mind that?— But you may be doing him
an injury. It is likely to make him ridiculous. V
Tekla. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was
that before! t/
Gustav. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back
the ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps?
Tekla. Oh — thank you!
Gustav. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!— Think only
if your husband could see us now!
Tekla. Wouldn't he howl, though!
Gustav. Is he jealous also?
Tekla. Is he? I should say so!
[A noise is heard from the room on the right.
Gustav. Who lives in that room?
Tekla. I don't know. — But tell me how you are getting
along and what you are doing?
Gustav. Tell me rather how you are getting along?
Tekla is visibly confused, and without realising what
she is doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.
Gustav. Hello! What's that?— Well!— It must be you!
Tekla. I don't believe so.
Gustav. But it is very like you.
Tekla. [Cynically] Do you think so?
Gustav. That reminds me of the story— you know it —
"How could your majesty see that?"
Tekla. [Laughing aloud] You are impossible! — Do you
know any new stories?
Gustav. No, but you ought to have some.

228 CREDITORS
Tekla. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays.
Gustav. Is he modest also?
Tekla. Oh— well  ¦
Gustav. Not in everything?
Tekla. He isn't well just now.
Gustav. Well, why should little brother put his nose into
other people's hives?
Tekla. [Laughing] You crazy thing!
Gustav. Poor chap ! — Do you remember once when we were
just married — we lived in this very room. It was furnished
differently in those days. There was a chest of drawers against
that wall there — and over there stood the big bed.
Tekla. Now you stop !
Gustav. Look at me!
S> Tekla. Well, why shouldn't I? [They look hard at each other.
Gustav. Do you think a person can ever forget anything
* that has made a very deep impression on him?
tf Tekla. No! And our memories have a tremendous power.
Particularly the memories of our youth.
Gustav. Do you remember when I first met you? Then
you were a pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and
governesses had made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out.
And then I filled it with inscriptions that suited my own mind,
until you believed the slate could hold nothing more. That's
the reason, you know, why I shouldn't care to be in your hus
band's place — well, that's his business! But it's also the rea
son why I take pleasure in meeting you again. Our thoughts
fit together exactly. And as I sit here and chat with you,
it seems to me Uke drinking old wine of my own bottling. Yes,
it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in flavour!
And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely
picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself.

feel

CREDITORS 220
Focthe woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is no
becomes hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy.
ekla. Are you going to marry again r1
Gustav. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this
time I am going to make a better start, so that it won't end
again with a spill.
Tekla. Is she good looking?
Gustav. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's
queer — now when chance has brought me together with you
again — I am beginning to doubt whether it will be pos
sible to play the game over again.
Tekla. How do you mean?
Gustav. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and
the old wounds are beginning to break open. You are a
dangerous woman, Tekla!
Tekla. Am I? And my young husband says that I can^
make no more conquests.
Gustav. That means he has ceased to love you. *
Tekla. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to
him. Gustav. You have been playing hide and seek so long that
at last you cannot find each other at all. Such things do hap
pen. You have had to play the innocent to yourself, until he
has lost his courage. There are some drawbacks to a change,
I tell you — there are drawbacks to it, indeed.
Tekla. Do you mean to reproach 
Gustav. Not at all ! Whatever happens is to a certain ex
tent necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would —
but now it did happen, and so it had to happen.
Tekla. Fom are a man of discernment. And I have never
met anybody with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas.
You are so utterly free from all morality and preaching, and
you ask so little of people, that it is possible to be oneself in

230 CREDITORS
your presence. Do you know, I am jealous of your intended
wife! Gustav. And do you realise that I am jealous of your hus
band? Tekla. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever!
Gustav. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell —
or what do you say?
Tekla. [Agitated] No!
Gustav; [Following after her] Yes ! — Let us have a farewell !
Let us drown our memories — you know, there are intoxica
tions so deep that when you wake up all memories are gone.
f [Putting his arm around her waist] You have been dragged
V down by a diseased spirit, who is infecting you with his own
anaemia. I'll breathe new life into you. I'll make your talent
blossom again in your autumn days, like a remontant rose.
I'll  Two Ladies in travelling dress are seen in the doorway
leading to the veranda. They look surprised. Then
x they point at those within, laugh, and disappear.
f Tekla. [Freeing herself] Who was that?
* Gustav. [Indifferently] Some tourists.
Tekla. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you!
T Gustav. Why?
Tekla. You take mv soul away from me!
/ Gustav. And give you my own m its place! And you
no soul for that matter — it's nothing but a delusie
Tekla. Ynmhave a. wa.y jjf saving JTffrjrmTe~things so that
nobody can be angry with yOT
Uustav. It's because you leel that I hold the first mortgage
on you — Tell me now, when — and — where?
Tekla. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still
in love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm.
Gustav. He does not love you! Do you want proofs?

CREDITORS 231
Tekla. Where can you get them?
Gustav. [Piclcing up the pieces of the photograph from the t
floor] Here! See for yourself !
Tekla. Oh, that's an outrage!
Gustav. Do you see? Now then, when? And where?
Tekla. The false-hearted wretch!
Gustav. When?
Tekla. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat.
Gustav. And then 
Tekla. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room]
Who can be living in there that makes such a racket? X
Gustav. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the key
hole] There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed -
water caraffe — that's all! I shouldn't wonder if thev had left
a dog locked up in there. — At nine o'clock then?
Tekla. All right! And let him answer for it himself. —
What a depth of deceit! And he who has always preached
about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!
—But wait a little — how was it now? He received me with
something like hostility — didn't meet me at the landing — and ,
then — and then he made some remark about young men on
board the boat, which I pretended not to hear — but how could
he know? Wait — and then he began to philosophise about
women — and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting
him — and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the
art of the time — exactly in accordance with your old specula
tions! *>, ._ «
Gustav. No, really! J '
Tekla. No, really? — Oh, now I understand! Now I be
gin to see what a hideous creature you are! You have been
here before and stabbed him to death! It was you who had
been sitting there on the sofa; it was you who made him think
himself an epileptic — that he had to live in celibacy; that he

CREDITORS
ought to rise in rebellion against his wife; yes, it was you! —
How long have you been here?
Gustav. I have been here a week.
Tekla. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat?
Gustav. It was.
Tekla. And now you were thinking you could trap me?
Gustav. It has been done.
Tekla. Not yet!
Gustav. Yes!
Tekla. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came
here with a villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you
were carrying it out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled
you. _
A Gustav. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it
.ppened in reality. Of course, it has hppn my sppret hppe
hat disaster might overtake you. But I felt practically cer
tain that no interference on my part was required. And^b£-
I have been far too busy to have any time left for in
triguing. But when I happened to be moving about a bit,
and happened to see you with those young men on board the
S ' boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to take a look
at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw itself
into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort
of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough
$ to explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because
V he seemed to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he
happened to touch old wounds — that book, you know, and
"the idiot" — and I was seized with a wish to pick him
to pieces, and /to miV up these so thoroughly that they
couldn't be putHogether again — and I succeeded, thanks to

the painsSgrngway i.n-wnjph ynn had done the work nfjirppa-
ration)) Then I had to deal with you. For you were the
spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be

CREDITORS 233
taken apart — and what a buzzing followed ! — When I came in
here, I didn't know exactly what to say. Like a chess-plaver.
I had laid a number of tentative plans, of course,Jbut my play
had to depend on your moves. One thing led to the other,
chance lent me a hand, and finally I had you where I wanted
you. — Now you are caught!
Tekla. No!
Gustav. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has hap
pened. The world at large, represented by two lady tourists
— whom I had not sent for, as I am not an intriguer — the world
has seen how you became reconciled to your former husband,
and how you sneaked back repentantly into his faithful arms.
Isn't that enough?
Tekla. It ought to be enough for your revenge — But
tell me, how can you, who are so enlightened and so right-
minded — how is it possible that you^jvho think whatever/
happens must happen, and thata]] iTT1 " "' ''  ¦ ¦¦¦¦ iHM|||jIimd
in advance 
Gustav. \Cmreeting her] To a certain extent;, Heternrijnpd'
Tekla. That's the san
Gustav^jMo!Tekla. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, wht)\
hold me guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the cir
cumstances into acting as I did — how can you think yourself
entitled to revenge — ? '
Gustav. For that very reason — for the reason that my C
nature and the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge.
Isn't that giving both sides a square deal? But do you know
why you two had to get the worst of it in this struggle? ^y
Tekla looks scornful.
Gustav. And whv_vouwere doomed to be fooled? Because
I am stronger than you, and_wjser also. You, have, been the_,
idiot— -an"cTneT~°!An3^iow you may perceive that aman need

234

CREDITORS

not be an idiot because he ipesn't write novels or paint pic-
for you to bear this in mind.

ire ymi 1

\ Gustav. Egtirely[ And for that very reason, you know, I
am imhiI'Ii1 lil IIim'iIiTiijJ in iihjihjiiii liiiii Ii nl iiii i'iipi iii hi i
wnateypr — a.n.d pf nptinfl — in which you have ]'ust~Eadjflme~"
slight exnerience. /~-=\^
Cekla. And all this merely because I have hurt youf van-J
itvr

'  Gustav. Don't call that merely! You had better not go
1 around hurting other people's vanity. They have no more
sensitive spot than that.
Tekla. Vindictive wretch — shame on youTj)
Gustav. Dissolute wretch — shame on you! /j
Tekla. Oh, that's my character, is it?
Gustav. Oh, that's my character, is it? — You ought to
learn something about human nature in others before you give
your own nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and
then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Tekla. You can never forgive 
Gustav. Yes, I have forgiven you!
Tekla. You!
Gustav. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you
during all these years? No! And now I came here only to
have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble.
Have I uttered a single reproach? Have I moralised or
preached sermons? No! I played a joke or two on your
J dear consort, and nothing more was needed to finish him. —
But there is no reason why I, the complainant, should be de
fending myself as I am now — Tekla! Have you nothing at all
to reproach yourself with?
Tekla. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions

CREDITORS 235
are governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either
case, arewfijiot-tree Irolll all liability P  ' ' ~

vv. In a measure, yes; \$at there is always a narrow
margin left unprotected, and there the liability applies in
spite of all. And sooner or later the creditors make their ap
pearance. Guitfck&H. buL dJu^inriTr^leJ-^nijtless in re;
one who i#no more; ^ecoujrtable to oneselj/and oi
beings. ^
' — "TEKLAi. So you came here to dun me?
Gustav. I came to take back what you had stolen, not /
what you had received as a gift. You had stolen my honour,
and I could recoyerJtJ2B]yby taking yours. This, I think, was
my right— i^r was it not^
Tekla. HonSUf? Hm! And now you feel satisfied?
Gustav. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.
Tekla. And now you are going home to your fiancee?
Gustav. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have
one. I am not going home, for I have no home, and don't
want one; 
A Waiter comes in.
Gustav. Get me my bill — I am leaving by the eight o'clock
boat. ,
The Waiter bows and goes out.
Tekla. Without making up?
Gustav. Making up? You use such a lot of words that
have lost theTr meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps
<f*Hi waul all three ofus to hve together? You, if anybody,
ought to make up by making good what you took away, but
this you cannot do. You just took, and what you took you
consumed, so that there is nothing left to restore.— Will it;
satisfy you if I say like this : forgive me that you tore my heart
to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced me; forgive m*
that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils through

236 CREDITORS
every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set you
free from parental restraints, that I released you from the
tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule
my house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made
a woman out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I
forgive you! — Now I have torn up_ypur note! Now you can
fro and settle ypur ij.pr.nnnt with the other one! ,
Tekla. What have you done with him? I am beginning
to suspect — something terrible!
Gustav. With him? Do you still love him?
Tekla. Yes!
Gustav. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true?
Tekla. It was true.
Gustav. Do you know what you are then?
Tekla. You despise me?
Gustav. I pity you. It is a trait — I don't call it a fault
*** — just a trait, which is rendered disadyantageous-byits results.
l Poor Tekla! 1 don't know — but it seems almost as if I were
\ feeling a certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt
I — as you! But perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I
(Vlelt that time. — Do you know where your husband is?
Tekla. I think I know now — he is in that room in there!
And he has heard everything! And seen everything! And
the man who sees his nwn wraith dies!
Adolph appears in the doorway leading to the veranda.
His face is white as a sheet, and there\s a bleeding
scratch on one cheek. His eyes are staring and void
of all expression. His lips are covered with froth.
Gustav. [Shrinking back] No, there he is! — Now you can
settle with him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.
— Good-bye! He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the
door.

CREDITORS

237

Tekla. [Goes to meet Adolph with open arms] Adolph!
Adolph leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradu
ally to the floor.
Tekla. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caress
ing him] Adolph! Mjlowii child! Are you still alive— oh,
speak, speak! — Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me,
forgive me, forgive me! — Little brother must say something,
I tell him! — No, good God, he doesn't hear! He is dead!
O God in heaven ! O my God! Help!
Gustav. Why, she really must have lovjecl Mm, topiXPoor^
creature ! A \> ff'X <¦
Curtain.

^

PARIAH

INTRODUCTION
Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter
of 1888-89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg,
assisted by his first wife, was then engaged in starting what he
called a "Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March,
1889, the two plays were given by students from the Univer
sity of Copenhagen, and with Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as
Tekla. A couple of weeks later the performance was repeated
across the Sound, in the Swedish city of Malmo, on which
occasion the writer of this introduction, then a young actor,
assisted in the stage management. One of the actors was
Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose ex
quisite art since then has won him European fame. In the
audience was Ola Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who
had just published a short story from which Strindberg, ac
cording to his own acknowledgment on playbill and title-page,
had taken the name and the theme of "Pariah."
Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (Tilslcueren,
Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg
about that time, as well as some very informative com
ments of his own. Concerning the performance of Malmo he
writes: "It gave me a very unpleasant sensation. What did
it mean? Why had Strindberg turned my simple theme up-
sidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a vestige
of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even
241

242 PARIAH
suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing
that it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had
at first planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah' — which meant,
of course, that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush
the weak Pariah, Hansson, coram populo."
In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it
dealt with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about
it, doing both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby every
thing is left vague and undefined." At that moment "Ras-
kolnikov" was in the air, so to speak. And without wanting
in any way to suggest imitation, I feel sure that the ground-
note of the story was distinctly Dostoievskian. Strindberg
himself had been reading Nietzsche and was — largely under
the pressure of a reaction against the popular disapproval of
his anti-feministic attitude — being driven more and more into
a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the two
novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea"
(1890). The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two
plays contained in the present volume.
But these plays are strongly colored by something else —
by something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strind-
berg-Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the
letters published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while
Strindberg was still planning "Creditors," and before he had
begun "Pariah," he had borrowed from Hansson a volume
of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It was his first acquaintance
with the work of Poe, though not with American literature
— for among his first printed work was a series of transla
tions from American humourists; and not long ago a Swedish
critic (Gunnar Castren in Samtiden, Christiania, June, 1912)
wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had learned
much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark
Twain and Dickens."

INTRODUCTION 243
The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming.
He returns to it in one letter after another. Everything that
suits his mood of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque."
The story that seems to have made the deepest impression of
all was "The Gold Bug," though his thought seems to have
distilled more useful material out of certain other stories illus
trating Poe's theories about mental suggestion. Under the
direct influence of these theories, Strindberg, according to
his own statements to Hansson, wrote the powerful one-act
play "Simoom," and made Gustav in "Creditors" actually
call forth the latent epileptic tendencies in Adolph. And on
the same authority we must trace the method of psycholog
ical detection practised by Mr. X. in "Pariah" directly to
"The Gold Bug."
Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so
little of his story in the play. And here we have the origin of
a theme which, while not quite new to him, was ever after
ward to remain a favourite one with Strindberg : that of a duel
between intellect and cunning. It forms the basis of such
novels as "Chandalah" and "At the Edge of the Sea," but
it recurs in subtler form in works of much later date. To
readers of the present day, Mr. X. — that striking antithesis
of everything a scientist used to stand for in poetry — is much
less interesting as a superman in spe than as an illustration of
what a morally and mentally normal man can do with the
tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways
and human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our
interest as firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised,
although the stage shows us only two men engaged in an in
tellectual wrestling match, Strindberg took another great step
toward ridding the drama of its old, shackling conventions.
The name of this play has sometimes been translated as
"The Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Out-

244 PARIAH
law," a much earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas.
I think it better, too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish
title be not lost, for the best of men may become an outcast,
but the baseness of the Pariah is not supposed to spring only
from lack of social position.

PARIAH AN ACT
1889

PERSONS
Mr. X., an archaeologist

>Mid

, Middle-aged men.
Mr. x., an American traveller l

SCENE
A simply furnished room in a farm-house. The door and the
windows in the background open on a landscape. In the middle
of the room stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books,
writing materials, and antiquities; al the other end by a micro
scope, insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.
On the left side hangs a book-shelf. Otherwise the furniture
is that of a well-to-do farmer.

PARIAH
Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and a
botany-can. He goes straight up to the book-shelf and takes
down a book, which he begins to read on the spot.
The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in sunlight.
The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning ser
vices are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is
heard from the outside.
Mr. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.
Mr. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf upside-
down, and pretends to be loolcing for another volume.
Mr. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have
a thunderstorm. Mr. Y. What makes you think so?
Mr. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies
are sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I
couldn't find any worms. Don't you feel nervous?
Mr. Y. [Cautiously] I?— A little.
Mr. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you
were expecting thunderstorms.
Mr. Y. [With a start] Do I?
Mr. X. Now, you are going away to-morrow, of course, so
it is not to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-
proud." — Anything new? — Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up
some letters from the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart
every time I open a letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts!
Have you ever had any debts? 247

248 PARIAH
Mr. Y. [After some reflection] N-no.
Mr. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to re
ceive a lot of overdue bills. [Reads one qf the letters] The rent
unpaid — the landlord acting nasty — my wife in despair. And
here am I sitting waist-bigh in gold! [He opens an iron-banded
box that stands on the table; then both sit down at the table, fac
ing each other] Just look — here I have six thousand crowns'
worth of gold which I have dug up in the last fortnight. This
bracelet alone would bring me the three hundred and fifty
crowns I need. And with all of it I might make a fine career
for myself. Then I could get the illustrations made for my
treatise at once; I could get my work printed, and — I could
travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose?
Mr. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out.
Mr. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intel
ligent fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was
never found out? I am alone all the time — with nobody
watching me — while I am digging out there in the fields. It
wouldn't be strange if I put something in my own pockets now
and then.
Mr. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the
stuff. Mr. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course — every bit of
it — and then I'd turn it into coins — with just as much gold
in them as genuine ones, of course 
Mr. Y. Of course!
Mr. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to
dabble in counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold
first. [Pause] It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody
else did what I cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to
acquit him — but I couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might
even make a brilliant speech in defence of the thief, proving
that this gold was res nullius, or nobody's, as it had been de-

PARIAH 249
posited at a time when property rights did not yet exist;
that even under existing rights it could belong only to the first
finder of it, as the ground-owner has never included it in the
valuation of his property; and so on.
Mr. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do
this if the — hm! — the thief had not been prompted by actual
need, but by a mania for collecting, for instance — or by
scientific aspirations — by the ambition to keep a discovery to
himself. Don't you think so?
Mr. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual
need had been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive
which the law will not accept in extenuation. That motive
makes a plain theft of it.
Mr. Y. And this you couldn't excuse?
Mr. X. Oh, excuse — no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't.
On the other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me
to charge a collector with theft merely because he had ap
propriated some specimen not yet represented in his own col
lection. Mr. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what
could not be excused by need?
Mr. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse
—the only one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I
can no more change this feeling than I can change my own
determination not to steal under any circumstances what
ever. Mr. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you
cannot — hm ! — steal ?
Mr. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible
as the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So
it cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other
one cannot refrain! — But you understand, of course, that I
am not without a desire to own this gold. Why don't I take

250 PARIAH
it then? Because I cannot! It's an inability — and the lack
of something cannot be called a merit. There!
[Closes the box with a slam.
Stray clouds have cast their shadows on the landscape and
darkened ihe room now and then. Now it grows quite
dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.
Mr. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming
all right. Mr. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.
Mr. X. Are you afraid of thunder?
Mr. Y. It's just as well to be careful.
They resume their seats at the table.
Mr. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping
down like a bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as
a Swedish-American who is collecting flies for a small mu
seum 
Mr. Y. Oh, never mind me now!
Mr. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of
talking about myself and want to turn my attention to you.
Perhaps that was the reason why I took to you as I did — be
cause you let me talk about myself? All at once we seemed like
old friends. There were no angles about you against which I
could bump myself, no pins that pricked. There was some
thing soft about your whole person, and you overflowed with
that tact which only well-educated people know how to show.
You never made a noise when you came home late at night
or got up early in the morning. You were patient in small
things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed threat
ening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion !
But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering
about you in the long run — and you are too timid, too easily
frightened. It seems almost as if you were made up of two
different personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your

PARIAH 251
back in the mirror over there — it is as if I were looking at
somebody else.
Mr. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.
Mr. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back,
man! — In front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one
meeting his fate with bared breast, but from behind — really,
I don't want to be impolite, but — you look as if you were
carrying a burden, or as if you were crouching to escape a
raised stick. And when I look at that red cross your suspend
ers make on your white shirt — well, it looks to me like some
kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a packing- box 
Mr. Y. I feel as if I'd choke — if the storm doesn't break
soon 
Mr. X. It's coming — don't you worry! — And your neck!
It looks as if there ought to be another kind of face on top of
it, a face quite different in type from yours. And your ears
come so close together behind that sometimes I wonder what
race you belong to. [A flash of lightning lights up the room]
Why, it looked as if that might have struck the sheriff's
house! Mr. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's!
Mr. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think
we'll get much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have
a talk, as you are going away to-morrow. One thing I find
strange is that you, with whom I have become so intimate in
this short time — that you are one of those whose image I
cannot call up when I am away from them. When you are
not here, and I happen to think of you, I always get the vision
of another acquaintance — one who does not resemble you, but
with whom you have certain traits in common.
Mr. Y. Who is he?
Mr. X. I don't want to name him, but — I used for several
years to take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the

252 PARIAH
side-table where they kept the whiskey and the other pre
liminaries, I met a little blond man, with blond, faded eyes.
He had a wonderful faculty for making his way through a
crowd without jostling anybody or being jostled himself.
And from his customary place down by the door he seemed
perfectly able to reach whatever he wanted on a table that
stood some six feet away from him. He seemed always happy
just to be in company. But when he met anybody he knew,
then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he would
hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human face
for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as
if eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I
watched him and amused myself by guessing at his occupa
tion and character, But I never asked who he was; I didn't
want to know, you see, for then all the fun would have been
spoiled at once. That man had just your quality of being in
definite. At different times I made him out to be a teacher
who had never got his licence, a non-commissioned officer,
a druggist, a government clerk, a detective — and like you, he
looked as if made out of two pieces, for the front of him never
quite fitted the back. One day I happened to read in a news
paper about a big forgery committed by a well-known gov
ernment official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentle
man had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his
name was Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid
Strawman used to run a circulating library, but that he was
now the police reporter of a big daily. How in the world could
I hope to establish a connection between the forgery, the
police, and my little man's peculiar manners? It was beyond
me; and when I asked a friend whether Strawman had ever
been punished for something, my friend couldn't answer
either yes or no — he just didn't know ! [Pause.
Mr. Y. Well, had he ever been — punished?

M

PARIAH 253
Mr. X. No, he had not. [Pause.
Mr. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police
had such an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of
offending people?
Mr. X. Exactly!
Mr. Y. And did you become acquainted with him after
ward? Mr. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.
Mr. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaint
ance if he had been — punished?
Mr. X. Perfectly!
Mr. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.
Mr. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still?
Mr. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human con
ditions? Are you a Christian?
Mr. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not?
Mr. Y. makes a face.
Mr. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require
punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may
call it, be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to
know the difference.
Mr. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at Mr; X., first with
wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How —
could — you — know — that ?
Mr. X. Why, I could see it.
Mr. Y. How? How could you see it?
Mr. X. Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many
others. But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his
watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink
well, and hands it to Mr. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled
affairs. Won't you please witness my signature on this note
here? I am going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo to-mor
row, when I go to the city with you.

254 PARIAH
Mr. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo.
Mr. X. Oh, you are not?
Mr. Y. No.
Mr. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my
signature. Mr. Y. N-no! — I never write my name on papers of that
kind 
Mr. X. — any longer! This is the fifth time you have re
fused to write your own name. The first time nothing more
serious was involved than the receipt for a registered letter.
Then I began to watch you. And since then I have noticed
that you have a morbid fear of a pen filled with ink. You
have not written a single letter since you came here — only a
post-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. You under
stand now that I have figured out the exact nature of your
slip? Furthermore! This is something like the seventh time
you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which place you
have not visited at all during all this time. And yet you came
the whole way from America merely to have a look at Malmo !
And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old
mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance.
And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and
look out through the third pane from the bottom on the left
side, you can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall
chimney of the county jail. — And now I hope you see that it's
your own stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made
everything clear to me.
Mr. Y. This means that you despise me?
Mr. X. Oh, no!
Mr. Y. Yes, you do — you cannot but do it!
Mr. X. No — here's my hand.
Mr. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.

PARIAH 255
Mr. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog!
Mr. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has
let me touch his hand after learning 
Mr. X. And now you call me "sir!" — What scares me
about you is that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean,
raised to the old level, as good as anybody else, when you have
suffered your punishment. Do you care to tell me how it
happened? Would you?
Mr. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what
I say. But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I
am no ordinary criminal. You'll become convinced, I think,
that there are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary —
[twisting again] which seem to commit themselves — spon
taneously — without being willed by oneself, and for which
one cannot be held responsible— May I open the door a
little now, since the storm seems to have passed over?
Mr. X. Suit yourself.
Mr. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and
begins to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical ges
tures, and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was
a student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan
from a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned
some property — not a great deal, of course. However, I had
sent the note to the second man of the two who were to act as
security, and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a
refusal. For a while I was completely stunned by the blow,
for it was a very unpleasant surprise — most unpleasant! The
note was lying in front of me on the table, and the letter lay
beside it. At first my eyes stared hopelessly at those lines
that pronounced my doom — that is, not a death-doom, of
course, for I could easily find other securities, as many as I
wanted— but as I have already said, it was very annoying
just the same. And as I was sitting there quite unconscious

256 PARIAH
of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the signature of
the letter, which would have made my future secure if it had
only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well-
written signature — and you know how sometimes one may
absent-mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless
words. I had a pen in my hand — [picks up a penholder from
the table] like this. And somehow it just began to run — I
don't want to claim that there was anything mystical — any
thing of a spiritualistic nature back of it — for that kind of
thing I don't believe in! It was a wholly unreasoned, mechan
ical process — my copying of that beautiful autograph over
and over again. When all the clean space on the letter was
used up, I had learned to reproduce the signature auto
matically — and then — [throwing away the penholder with a
violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I slept
long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I
had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself.
At times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I
seemed to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a dis
tant memory — and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to
the table, just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an
irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper.
All thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had dis
appeared — no hesitation remained — it was almost as if I was
fulfilling some sacred duty — and so I wrote! [Leaps to his
feet] What could it be? Was it some kind of outside influence,
a case of mental suggestion, as they call it? But from whom
could it come? I was sleeping alone in that room. Could it
possibly be my primitive self — the savage to whom the keep
ing of faith is an unknown thing — which pushed to the front
while my consciousness was asleep — together with the crim
inal will of that self, and its inability to calculate the results
of an action? Tell me, what do you think of it?

PARIAH 257
Mr. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself]
Frankly speaking, your story does not convince me — there
are gaps in it, but these may depend on your failure to recall
all the details — and I have read something about criminal
suggestion — or I think I have, at least — hm! But all that is
neither here nor there! You have taken your medicine — and
you have had the courage to acknowledge your fault. Now
we won't talk of it any more.
Mr. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it — till I become sure
of my innocence.
Mr. X. Well, are you not?
Mr. Y. No, I am not!
Mr. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's ex
actly what is bothering me! — Don't you feel fairly sure that
every human being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we
not, all of us, stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly!
Well, now there are persons who remain children all their
lives, so that they cannot control their unlawful desires. Then
comes the opportunity, and there you have your criminal. —
But I cannot understand why you don't feel innocent. If the
child is not held responsible, why should the criminal be re
garded differently? It is the more strange because — well,
perhaps I may come to repent it later. [Pause] I, for my part,
have killed a man, and I have never suffered any qualms on
account of it.
Mr. Y. [Very much interested] Have — you?
Mr. X. Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to
shake hands with a murderer?
Mr. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense!
Mr. X. Yes, but I have not been punished.
Mr. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior
tone] So much the better for you!— How did you get out
of it?

258 PARIAH
Mr. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no
witnesses. This is the way it happened. One Christmas I
was invited to hunt with a fellow-student a Uttle way out of
Upsala. He sent a besotted old coachman to meet me at the
station, and this fellow went to sleep on the box, drove the
horses into a fence, and upset the whole equipage in a ditch.
I am not going to pretend that my life was in danger. It was
sheer impatience which made me hit him across the neck with
the edge of my hand— you know the way — just to wake him
up — and the result was that he never woke up at all, but col
lapsed then and there.
Mr. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it?
Mr. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so.
The man left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom
his life could be of the slightest use. He had already outlived
his allotted period of vegetation, and his place might just as
well be filled by somebody more in need of it. On the other
hand, my life was necessary to the happiness of my parents
and myself, and perhaps also to the progress of my science.
The outcome had once for all cured me of any desire to wake
up people in that manner, and I didn't care to spoil both my
own life and that of my parents for the sake of an abstract
principle of justice.
Mr. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a
human life?
Mr. X. In the present case, yes.
Mr. Y. But the sense of guilt — that balance you were
speaking of?
Mr. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no
crime. As a boy I had given and taken more than one blow
of the same kind, and the fatal outcome in this particular
case was simply caused by my ignorance of the effect such a
blow might have on an elderly person.

PARIAH 259
Mr. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man
is punished with a two-year term at hard labour — which is
exactly what one gets for — writing names.
Mr. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And
moie than one night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell
me now — is it really as bad as they say to find oneself behind
bolt and bar?
Mr. Y. You bet it is! — First of all they disfigure you by
cutting off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal
before, you are sure to do so afterward. And when you
catch sight of yourself in a mirror you feel quite sure that you
are a regular bandit.
Mr. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps?
Which wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say.
Mr. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it! — And
then they cut down your food, so that every day and every
hour you become conscious of the border line between life and
death. Every vital function is more or less checked. You
can feel yourself shrinking. And your soul, which was to be
cured and improved, is instead put on a starvation diet —
pushed back a thousand years into outlived ages. You are
not permitted to read anything but what was written for the
savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You
hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and
what actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from
you. You are torn out of your surroundings, reduced from
your own class, put beneath those who are really beneath
yourself. Then you get a sense of living in the bronze age.
You come to feel as if you were dressed in skins, as if you
were living in a cave and eating out of a trough — ugh!
Mr. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts
as if he belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected
to don the proper costume.

260 PARIAH
Mr. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved
like a man from the stone age — and who are permitted to live
in the golden age.
Mr. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean
with that last expression — the golden age?
Mr. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all.
Mr. X. Now you lie — because you are too much of a
coward to say all you think.
Mr. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no
coward when I dared to show myself around here, where I
had had to suffer as I did. — But can you tell what makes one
suffer most while in there? — It is that the others are not in
there too!
Mr. X. What others?
Mr. Y. Those that go unpunished.
Mr. X. Are you thinking of me?
Mr. Y. I am.
Mr. X. But I have committed no crime.
Mr. Y. Oh, haven't you?
Mr. X. No, a misfortune is no crime.
Mr. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder?
Mr. X. I have not committed murder.
Mr. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person?
Mr. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, man
slaughter, killing in self-defence — and it makes a distinction
between intentional and unintentional killing. However —
now you really frighten me, for it's becoming plain to me that
you belong to the most dangerous of all human groups — that
of the stupid.
Mr. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen —
would you like me to show you how clever I am?
Mr. X. Come on!
Mr. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both

PARIAH 261
logic and wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you.
You have suffered a misfortune which might have brought
you two years at hard labor. You have completely escaped
the disgrace of being punished. And here you see before you
a man — who has also suffered a misfortune — the victim of an
unconscious impulse — and who has had to stand two years
of hard labor for it. Only by some great scientific achieve
ment can this man wipe off the taint that has become attached
to him without any fault of his own — but in order to arrive
at some such achievement, he must have money — a lot of
money — and money this minute! Don't you think that the
other one, the unpunished one, would bring a little better bal
ance into these unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty
in the form of a fine? Don't you think so?
Mr. X. [Calmly] Yes.
Mr. Y. Then we understand each other. — Hm! [Pause]
What do you think would be reasonable?
Mr. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is
fixed by the law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is
settled by the fact that the dead man left no relatives.
Mr. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then
I'll have to speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine.
Mr. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to
collect fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there
is no prosecutor.
Mr. Y. There isn't? Well— how would I do?
Mr. X. Oh, now we are getting the matter cleared up!
How much do you want for becoming my accomplice?
Mr. Y. Six thousand crowns.
Mr. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them?
Mr. Y. points to the box.
Mr. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to be
come a thief.

PARIAH

Mr. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll
believe that you haven't helped yourself out of that box be
fore? Mr. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could
let myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with
these soft natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to
believe that they like you. And that's the reason why I have
always been on my guard against people I take a liking to ! —
So you are firmly convinced that I have helped myself out of
the box before?
Mr. Y. Certainly!
Mr. X. And you are going to report me if you don't get
six thousand crowns?
Mr. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's
no use trying.
Mr. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief
for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for
father, my fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will
never happen ! — Now I am going over to the sheriff to report
the killing myself.
Mr. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait
a moment! Mr. X. For what?
Mr. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought — as I am no longer
needed — it wouldn't be necessary for me to stay — and I might
just as well leave.
Mr. X. No, you may not! — Sit down there at the table,
where you sat before, and we'll have another talk before you
go. Mr. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are
you up to now?
Mr. X. [Looking into the mirror back of Mr. Y.] Oh, now
I have it! Oh-h-h!

PARIAH 263
Mr. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you
discovering now?
Mr. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief — a plain,
ordmary thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white
shirt on, I could notice that there was something wrong about
my book-shelf. I couldn't make out just what it was, for I
had to listen to you and watch you. But as my antipathy in
creased, my vision became more acute. And now, with your
black coat to furnish the needed color contrast for the red back
of the book, which before couldn't be seen against the red of
your suspenders — now I see that you have been reading about
forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental suggestion — for you
turned the book upsidedown in putting it back. So even that
story of yours was stolen ! For this reason I think myself en
titled to conclude that your crime must have been prompted
by need, or by mere love of pleasure.
Mr. Y. By need ! If you only knew 
Mr. X. If you only knew the extent of the need I have had
to face and live through! But that's another story! Let's
proceed with your case. That you have been in prison — I
take that for granted. But it happened in America, for it was
American prison life you described. Another thing may also
be taken for granted, namely, that you have not borne your
punishment on this side.
Mr. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind?
Mr. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn
all about it.
Mr. Y. gets up.
Mr. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the
sheriff, in connection with the storm, you wanted also to run
away. And when a person has served out his time he doesn't
care to visit an old mill every day just to look at a prison, or
to stand by the window — in a word, you are at once punished

264 PARIAH
and unpunished. And that's why it was so hard to make you
out. [Pause.
Mr. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now?
Mr. X. Now you can go.
Mr. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me?
Mr. X. Yes — would you prefer me to pity you?
Mr. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better
than I?
Mr. X. Of course I do, as I am better than you. I am
wiser, and I am less of a menace to prevailing property rights.
Mr. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as
clever as you. For the moment you have me checked, but in
the next move I can mate you — all the same !
Mr. X. [Looking hard at Mr. Y.] So we have to have
another bout! What kind of mischief are you up to now?
Mr. Y. That's my secret.
Mr. X. Just look at me — oh, you mean to write my wife
an anonymous letter giving away my secret!
Mr. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't
dare to have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And
when I am gone, I can do what I please.
Mr. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable s2iot!
Do you want to make a real murderer out of me?
Mr. Y. That's more than you'll ever become — coward!
Mr. X. There you see how different people are. You have
a feeling that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts
as you. And that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you
forced me to treat you as I treated that coachman?
[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit Mr. Y.
Mr. Y. [Staring Mr. X. straight in the face] You can't!
It's too much for one who couldn't save himself by means of
the box over there.

I
PARIAH 265
Mr. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of
the box?
Mr. Y. You were too cowardly — just as you were too
cowardly to tell your wife that she had married a murderer.
Mr. X. You are a different man from what I took you to
be — if stronger or weaker, I cannot tell — if more criminal or
less, that's none of my concern — but decidedly more stupid;
that much is quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote
another person's name instead of begging — as I have had to
do. Stupid you were when you stole things out of my book —
could you not guess that I might have read my own books?
Stupid you were when you thought yourself cleverer than me,
and when you thought that I could be lured into becoming a
thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could be
restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But
most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to
provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and
write my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about
her husband having killed a man — she knew that long before
we were married! — Have you had enough now?
Mr. Y. May I go?
Mr. X. Now you have to go! And at once! I'll send your
things after you! — Get out of here!
Curtain.

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