Christine. No, I don’t find that; because if they’re not better it’s not worth while trying to be like our betters, and think of the Count, think of him; he’s had so much trouble all his life long. No, I won’t stay any longer in this house. And with the likes of you! If it had been even Kronvogt, if it had been a better man.
John. What do you mean?
Christine. Yes, yes, you’re quite a good fellow, I know, but there’s always a difference between people and people—and I can never forget it. A young lady who was so proud, so haughty to the men that one could never imagine that she would ever give herself to a man—and then the likes of you! Her, who wanted to have the poor Diana shot dead at once, because she ran after a dog in the courtyard. Yes, I must say that; but I won’t stay here any longer, and on the 24th of October I go my way.
John. And then?
Christine. Well, as we’re on the subject, it would be about time for you to look out for another job, as we want to get married.
John. Yes, what kind of a job am I to look out for? I can’t get as good a place as this, if I’m married.
Christine. Of course you can’t, but you must try to get a place as porter, or see if you can get a situation as a servant in some public institution. The victuals are few but certain, and then the wife and children get a pension.
John. [With a grimace.] That’s all very fine, but it’s not quite my line of country to start off about thinking of dying for wife and child. I must confess that I’ve higher views.
Christine. Your views, to be sure! But you’ve also got obligations. Just think of her.
John. You mustn’t nag me by talking about my obligations. I know quite well what I’ve got to do. [He listens for a sound outside.] But we’ve got time enough to think about all this. Go in, and get ready, and then we’ll go to church.
Christine. Who’s walking about upstairs?
John. I don’t know—perhaps Clara.
Christine. [Goes.] I suppose it can’t be the Count who’s come back without anyone having heard him?
John. [Nervously.] No, I don’t think so, because then he’d have rung already.
Christine. Yes. God knows. I’ve gone through the likes of this before. [Exit to the right. The sun has risen in the meanwhile and gradually illuminates the tops of the trees outside, the light grows gradually deeper till it falls slanting on the window. JOHN goes to the glass door and makes a sign.]
Julie. [Comes in in traveling dress, with a small bird cage covered with a handkerchief, and places it on a chair.] I’m ready now.
John. Hush! Christine is awake.
Julie. [Extremely excited in the following scene.] Did she have any idea?
John. She knows nothing. But, my God! What a sight you look.
Julie. What! How’d I look?
John. You’re as white as a corpse and, pardon my saying it, your face is dirty.
Julie. Then give me some water to wash—all right. [She goes to the washing-stand and washes her face and hands.] Give me a towel. Ah! the sun has risen.
John. And then the hobgoblin flies away.
Julie. Yes, a goblin has really been at work last night. Listen to me. Come with me. I’ve got the needful, John.
John. [Hesitating.] Enough?
Julie. Enough to start on. Come with me, I can’t travel alone to-day. Just think of it. Midsummer Day in a stuffy train, stuck in among a lot of people who stare at one; waiting about at stations when one wants to fly. No, I can’t do it! I can’t do it! And then all my memories, my memories of Midsummer’s Day when I was a child, with the church decorated with flowers—birch and lilac, the midday meal at a splendidly covered table, relatives and friends, the afternoon in the park, dancing and music, flowers and games. Ah! you can run away and run away, but your memories, your repentance and your pangs of conscience follow on in the luggage van.
John. I’ll come with you, but right away, before it’s too late. Now. Immediately.
Julie. Then get ready. [She takes up the bird cage.]
John. But no luggage. In that case we’re lost.
Julie. No, no luggage, only what we can take with us in the compartment.
John. [Has taken a hat.] What have you got there then? What is it?
Julie. It’s only my little canary. I don’t want to leave it behind.
John. Come, I say! Have we got to cart along a bird cage with us? How absolutely mad! Leave the bird there!
Julie. The only thing I’m taking with me from home! The one living creature that likes me, after Diana was faithless to me! Don’t be cruel. Let me take it with me!
John. Leave it there, I tell you—and don’t talk so loud. Christine might hear us.
Julie. No, I won’t leave it behind among strangers. I’d rather you killed it.
John. Then give me the little thing; I’ll twist its neck for it.
Julie. Yes, but don’t hurt it, don’t! No, I can’t!
John. Hand it over—I’ll do the trick.
Julie. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it.] Oh, my dicky bird! Must you die by the hand of your own mistress?
John. Be good enough not to make any scene; your life and well-being are at stake. That’s right, quick! [He snatches the bird out of her hand, carries it to the chopping block, and takes the kitchen knife.] [ JULIE turns round^] You should have learned to kill fowls instead of shooting with your revolver. [Chops.] And then you wouldn’t have fainted at the sight of a drop of blood.
Julie. [Shrieking.] Kill me too, kill me! If you can kill an innocent animal without your hand shaking! Oh, I hate and loathe you! There is blood between us! I curse the hour in which I saw you! I curse the hour in which I was born!
John. Now, what’s the good of your cursing? Let’s go!
Julie. [Approaches the chopping block as though attracted to it against her will.] No, I won’t go yet, I can’t—I must see. Hush! there’s a wagon outside. [She listens, while her eyes are riveted in a stare on the chopping block and the knife.] Do you think I can’t look at any blood? Do you think I’m so weak? Oh! I’d just like to see your blood and your brains on the chopping block. I’d like to see your whole stock swimming in a lake, like the one there. I believe I could drink out of your skull! I could wash my feet in your chest! I could eat your heart roasted! You think I am weak! You think I love you! You think I mean to carry your spawn under my heart and feed it with my own blood, bear your child and give it your name! I say, you, what is your name? I’ve never heard your surname—you haven’t got any, I should think. I shall be Mrs. Head Waiter, or Madame Chimney Sweeper. You hound! You, who wear my livery, you menial, who wear my arms on your buttons—I’ve got to go shares with my cook, have I?—to compete with my own servant? Oh! oh! oh! You think I’m a coward and want to run away? No, now I’m going to stay, and then the storm can burst. My father comes home—he finds his secretary broken open and his money stolen—then he rings the bell twice—for his servant—and then he sends for the police—and then I shall tell him everything. Everything! Oh, it’s fine to make an end of the thing—if it would only have an end. And then he gets a stroke, and dies—and that’s the end of the whole story. And then comes peace and quiet—eternal peace. And then the escutcheon is broken over the coffin: the noble race is extinct—and the servant’s brat grows up in a foundling hospital—and wins his spurs in the gutter, and finishes up in a prison. [CHRISTINE, dressed for church, enters on the right, hymn book in hand. JULIE rushes to her and falls into her arms, as though seeking protection.] Help me, Christine; help me against this man!