FullReads

JULIE.
You speak as though you were already my superior.

JEAN.
And so I am! For I can make you a countess and you could never make me a count.

JULIE.
But I am born of a count, that you can never be.

JEAN.
That is true, but I can be the father of counts–if–

JULIE.
But you are a thief–that I am not.

JEAN.
There are worse things than that, and for that matter when I serve in a house I regard myself as a member of the family, a child of the house as it were. And one doesn’t consider it theft if children snoop a berry from full bushes. [With renewed passion]. Miss Julie, you are a glorious woman–too good for such as I. You have been the victim of an infatuation and you want to disguise this fault by fancying that you love me. But you do not–unless perhaps my outer self attracts you. And then your love is no better than mine. But I cannot be satisfied with that, and your real love I can never awaken.

JULIE
. Are you sure of that?

JEAN
. You mean that we could get along with such an arrangement? There’s no doubt about my loving you–you are beautiful, you are elegant–[Goes to her and takes her hand] accomplished, lovable when you wish to be, and the flame that you awaken in man does not die easily. [Puts arm around her.] You are like hot wine with strong spices, and your lips–

[Tries to kiss her. Julie pulls herself away slowly.]

JULIE.
Leave me–I’m not to be won this way.

JEAN.
How then? Not with caresses and beautiful words? Not by thoughts for the future, to save humiliation? How then?

JULIE.
How? I don’t know. I don’t know! I shrink from you as I would from a rat. But I cannot escape from you.

JEAN.
Escape with me.

JULIE.
Escape? Yes, we must escape.–But I’m so tired. Give me a glass of wine. [Jean fills a glass with wine, Julie looks at her watch.] We must talk it over first for we have still a little time left.

[She empties the glass and puts it out for more.]

JEAN.
Don’t drink too much. It will go to your head.

JULIE.
What harm will that do?

JEAN.
What harm? It’s foolish to get intoxicated. But what did you want to say?

JULIE.
We must go away, but we must talk first. That is, I must speak, for until now you have done all the talking. You have told me about your life–now I will tell you about mine, then we will know each other through and through before we start on our wandering together.

JEAN.
One moment, pardon. Think well whether you won’t regret having told your life’s secrets.

JULIE.
Aren’t you my friend?

JEAN.
Yes. Sometimes. But don’t depend on me.

JULIE.
You only say that. And for that matter I have no secrets. You see, my mother was not of noble birth. She was brought up with ideas of equality, woman’s freedom and all that. She had very decided opinions against matrimony, and when my father courted her she declared that she would never be his wife–but she did so for all that. I came into the world against my mother’s wishes, I discovered, and was brought up like a child of nature by my mother, and taught everything that a boy must know as well; I was to be an example of a woman being as good as a man–I was made to go about in boy’s clothes and take care of the horses and harness and saddle and hunt, and all such things; in fact, all over the estate women servants were taught to do men’s work, with the result that the property came near being ruined–and so we became the laughing stock of the countryside. At last my father must have awakened from his bewitched condition, for he revolted, and ran things according to his ideas. My mother became ill–what it was I don’t know, but she often had cramps and acted queerly–sometimes hiding in the attic or the orchard, and would even be gone all night at times. Then came the big fire which of course you have heard about. The house, the stables–everything was burned, under circumstances that pointed strongly to an incendiary, for the misfortune happened the day after the quarterly insurance was due and the premiums sent in by father were strangely delayed by his messenger so that they arrived too late. [She fills a wine glass and drinks.]