Part 6
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.
HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. Good-bye, Adolphe!
ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here?
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: Look out! 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.
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 philosophise 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 has been proved by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which I have forgotten.
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 _that_. You have shown yourself so poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust her fate to you any longer.
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 believe 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 workman, but if everybody kept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of sense and tact.
EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gérard?
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 ABBÉ enters and sits down.)
EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBÉ] Perhaps after--
MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbé is also a friend, although he and I differ.
EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gérard? 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 presence of your friends, that you don't think either me or my 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 Henrietta 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. I have no right to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have 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--Abbé, now I come over to you.
ABBÉ. Welcome!
MAURICE. Give me the word that I need.
ABBÉ. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and inform you that you have done nothing wrong?
MAURICE. Speak the right word!
ABBÉ. 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?
ABBÉ. You know as well as I do.
MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever.
ABBÉ. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better world, which you are now beginning to believe in?
MAURICE. Yes, that's it.
ABBÉ. 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.
ABBÉ. 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?
ABBÉ. Well, didn't you wish--
MAURICE. Yes, yes!
ABBÉ. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock.
MAURICE. That will be splendid!
ABBÉ. 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 ABBÉ holds on to his hand.)
ABBÉ. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is.
SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to attend the performance tonight.
ABBÉ. [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 ABBÉ. 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!
ABBÉ. 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 Mademoiselle Henriette.
ABBÉ. [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 tries to smother with her handkerchief.]
ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight.
ABBÉ. 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, Abbé!
ABBÉ. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that himself.
MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbé.
ABBÉ. 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?
ABBÉ. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in your thought you became 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!
ABBÉ. Yes, so it is!
(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 lie 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 son in far greater measure were granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he himself had prescribed, 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 members of the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing 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 standards of student organizations mingling with the banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole country, observed the day as one of mourning.
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 individual, 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 Strindberg during his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss Julia," both on account of its masterful construction 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 represents, 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 advocate 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 analysis 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.
Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg 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 Director" (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 against 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 Théâtre Libre at Paris, and 'Thérèse Raquin,' although nothing but an adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerful theme and the concentrated 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 Théâtre L'OEuvre, 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 Bühne 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 Vienna. The principal parts were played by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And Sigismund Lautenburg, 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 promising 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 rashness, 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 endeavour. 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:
"As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successful performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, 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 "Fröken," which corresponds exactly to the German "Fräulein" 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 characterize 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 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 languages 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 Translation" in 1791--and a majority of translators are still unaware 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 translation. 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 discussion. 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.