Julie. Who was it? [JOHN is silent.]
John. You can’t compel me to tell you.
Julie. If I ask you as an equal, as—a friend? Who was it?
John. You!
Julie. [Sits down.] How funny!
John. And if you want to hear the story, here goes! It was humorous. This is the tale, mind you, which I would not tell you before, but I’ll tell you right enough now. Do you know how the world looks from down below? No, of course you don’t. Like hawks and eagles, whose backs a man can scarcely ever see because they’re always flying in the air. I grew up in my father’s hovel along with seven sisters and—a pig—out there on the bare gray field, where there wasn’t a single tree growing, and I could look out from the window on to the walls of the Count’s parks, with its apple-trees. That was my Garden of Eden, and many angels stood there with a flaming sword and guarded it, but all the same I, and other boys, found my way to the Tree of Life—do you despise me?
Julie. Oh, well—stealing apples? All boys do that.
John. That’s what you say, but you despise me all the same. Well, what’s the odds! Once I went with my mother inside the garden, to weed out the onion bed. Close by the garden wall there stood a Turkish pavilion, shaded by jasmine and surrounded by wild roses. I had no idea what it was used for, but I’d never seen so fine a building. People went in and out, and one day the door stood open. I sneaked in, and saw the walls covered with pictures of queens and emperors, and red curtains with fringes were in front of the windows—now you know what I mean. I [He takes a lilac branch and holds it under the young lady’s nose.] I’d never been in the Abbey, and I’d never seen anything else but the church—but this was much finer, and wherever my thoughts roamed they always came back again to it, and then little by little the desire sprang up in me to get to know, some time, all this magnificence. En-fin, I sneaked in, saw and wondered, but then somebody came. There was, of course, only one way out for the gentry, but I found another one, and, again, I had no choice. [JULIE, who has taken up the Wac branch, lets it fall on the table.] So I flew, and rushed through a lilac bush, clambered over a garden bed and came out by a terrace of roses. I there saw a light dress and a pair of white stockings—that was you. I laid down under a heap of herbage, right under them. Can you imagine it?—under thistles which stung me and wet earth which stank, and I looked at you where you came between the roses, and I thought if it is true that a murderer can get into the kingdom of heaven, and remain among the angels, it is strange if here, on God’s own earth, a poor lad like me can’t get into the Abbey park and play with the Count’s daughter.
Julie. [Sentimentally.] Don’t you think that all poor children under similar circumstances have had the same thoughts?
John. [At first hesitating, then in a tone of conviction.] That all poor children—yes—of course. Certainly.
Julie. Being poor must be an infinite misfortune.
John. [With deep pain.] Oh, Miss Julie. Oh! A dog can lie on the Count’s sofa, a horse can be petted by a lady’s hand, on its muzzle, but a boy! [ With a change of tone.] Yes, yes; a man of individuality here and there may have enough stuff in him to come to the top, but how often is that the case? What do you think I did then?—I jumped into the mill-stream, clothes and all, but was fished out and given a thrashing. But the next Sunday, when father and all of the people at home went to grandmother’s, I managed to work it that I stayed at home, and I then had a wash with soap and warm water, put on my Sunday clothes and went to church, where I could get a sight of you. I saw you and went home determined to die, but I wanted to die in a fine and agreeable way, without pain, and I then got the idea that it was dangerous to sleep under a lilac bush. We had one which at that time was in full bloom. I picked all the blooms which it had and then lay down in the oat bin. Have you ever noticed how smooth the oats are? As soft to the hand as human skin. I then shut the lid, and at last went to sleep and woke up really very ill; but I didn’t die, as you see. I don’t know what I really wanted, there was no earthly possibility of winning you. But you were a proof for me of the utter hopelessness of escaping from the circle in which I’d been born.
Julie. You tell a story charmingly, don’t you knew. Have you been to school?
John. A little, but I’ve read a lot of novels, and been a lot to the theater. Besides, I’ve heard refined people talk, and I’ve learned most from them.
Julie. Do you listen, then, to what we say?
John. Yes, that’s right; and I’ve picked up a great deal when I’ve sat on the coachman’s box or been rowing the boat. I once heard you, Miss, and a young lady friend of yours.
Julie. Really? What did you hear then?
John. Well, that I can’t tell you, but I was really somewhat surprised, and I couldn’t understand where you’d learned all the words from. Perhaps at bottom there isn’t so great a difference between class and class as one thinks.
Julie. Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! We are not like you are, and we have someone whom we love best.
John. [Fixes her with his eyes.] Are you so sure of that? You needn’t make yourself out so innocent, Miss, on my account.
Julie. The man to whom I gave my love was a scoundrel.
John. Girls always say that—afterward.
Julie. Always?
John. Always, I think. I’ve certainly already heard the phrase on several previous occasions, in similar circumstances.
Julie. What circumstances?
John. The last time
Julie. Stop! I won’t hear any more.
John. She wouldn’t either—it’s remarkable. Oh, well, will you excuse me if I go to bed?
Julie. [Tartly.] Go to bed on Midsummer Night?
John. Yes. Dance out there with the riff-raff, that doesn’t amuse me the least bit.
Julie. Take the key of the boathouse and row me out on the lake. I want to- see the sun rise.
John. Is that sensible?
Julie. It seems you’re concerned about your reputation.
John. Why not? I’m not keen on making myself look ridiculous, nor on being kicked out without a reference, if I want to set up on my own, and it seems to me I have certain obligations to Christine.
Julie. Oh, indeed! So it’s Christine again?
John. Yes; but it’s on your account as well. Take my advice and* go- up and go* to bed.
Julie. Shall I obey you?
John. This once for your own sake, I ask you; it’s late at night, sleepiness makes one dazed, and one’s blood boils. You go and lie down. Besides, if I can believe my ears, people are coming to find me, and if we are found here you are lost. [Chorus is heard in the distance and gets nearer.]