A monologue from the play by August Strindberg
Don’t you think I can stand the sight of blood? You think I am weak.
Oh, I should like to see your blood flowing—to see your brain on the chopping block, all your sex swimming in a sea of blood.
I believe I could drink out of your skull, bathe my feet in your breast and eat your heart cooked whole.
You think I am weak; you believe that I love you because my life has mingled with yours;
you think that I would carry your offspring under my heart, and nourish it with my blood—give birth to your child and take your name!
Hear, you, what are you called, what is your family name? But I’m sure you have none. I should be “Mrs. Gate-Keeper,” perhaps, or “Madame Dumpheap.”
You dog with my collar on, you lackey with my father’s hallmark on your buttons. I play rival to my cook—oh—oh—oh!
You believe that I am cowardly and want to run away. No, now I shall stay. The thunder may roll.
My father will return—and find his desk broken into—his money gone! Then he will ring—that bell.
A scuffle with his servant—then sends for the police—and then I tell all—everything! Oh, it will be beautiful to have it all over with—if only that were the end!
And my father—he’ll have a shock and die, and then that will be the end. Then they will place his swords across the coffin—and the Count’s line is extinct.
The serf’s line will continue in an orphanage, win honors in the gutter and end in prison.