JULIE. What do I care for what I have cast aside! Say that you love me, or else--ah, what am I else? JEAN. I will say it a thousand times--later on. But not here. And above all, no hysterics, or all is lost. We must manage the affair quietly, like sensible people. [_He takes out a cigar, cuts the end, and lights it_.] Sit down there, and I will sit here, and then we can chat as if nothing had happened. JULIE. Oh, my God! Have you no feelings? JEAN. I! why, there is no one more sensitive than I, but I can command my feelings. JULIE. A short time ago you would have kissed my shoe, and now-- JEAN. [_Coldly_] Yes, before. But now we have something else to think about. The scamp sounds her as to the money she possesses. She has none. He compels her to rob her father. He kills her bird. She curses him, for her poor brain is going under from the strain put upon it. She throws herself upon the mercy of the cook; but Christina, who is a good woman, repels and rebukes the sinner. The Count returns. He rings. Jean again becomes the servant, though not until he has given Julie his razor, bidding her use it. She goes out and kills herself, unable to resist the stronger will. In this shocking drama is crystallized all the bitterness of Strindberg, for he once married a Countess; he, too, has lived in the _Inferno._ Again we say the ending revolts; in comparison, the _coda_ of Ibsen's Ghosts is a mild exercise in emotional _arpeggios_. Strindberg's heavy fist smashes out music, sinister and murderous, in this ruthless play. Julie is a close study of a girl whose blood is tainted before birth, whose education has been false, whose life in society has inflamed her passions. She falls easily when the cunning Jean tempts her at the psychologic moment. I saw Julie at the Kleines Theatre, Berlin, last autumn, Frau Eysoldt--Sorma suffering from a bruised arm--assuming the title rôle, deciphering with skill the abnormal hieroglyphics of the character. In Gläubiger, a tragic comedy, Strindberg treats, with his accustomed omniscience, a sweet little story about a man who follows his runaway wife to a seaside resort and becomes acquainted with the new husband--unknown to the lady, who is away for a week. Here we catch a glimpse of another hell, the cruelty of a powerful intellect. The weaker man is a painter, turned sculptor, and--subtle irony--he models only his wife's figure. (This was published in 1889; Ibsen certainly read it--witness When We Dead Awake.) The snaring of the poor emotional wretch's soul is masterly. It is all over in an hour, the entire play, and again we feel as if we had mutely assisted at the obsequies of three human beings. The first husband--who is discovered as such at the end of the play--meets his former wife, and her infamous nature is exposed. The artist hears the conversation, and his fate is not to be spoken of lightly. We pass on.