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!
Christine.[Immobile and cold.] What a pretty sight for a holiday morning! [She looks at the chopping block.] And what a dirty mess you’ve been making here! What can it all mean? How you’re shrieking and
Julie. Christine, you’re a woman, and my friend. Beware of this scoundrel.
John.[Slightly shy and embarrassed.] If you ladies want to have an argument, I’ll go in and have a shave. [He sneaks away to the right.]
Julie. You will understand me, and you must do what I tell you.