FullReads

MR. X.
Go ahead.

MR. Y.
[Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and false accents].

Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some means–not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal. I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn’t a death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as security; as many as I wanted, for that matter–but, as I’ve said, it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual calligraphy–you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand–

[He takes up the pen]
like this, and before I knew what I was doing it started to write,–of course I don’t want to imply that there was anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it–because I don’t believe in such things!–it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action–when I sat and copied the beautiful autograph time after time–without, of course, any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well

[Throws the pen down with violence]
and then I forgot the whole thing. That night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table and the note in memory–and when I got up I was driven to the table absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk, of consequence, had disappeared–there was no wavering–it was almost as if I were fulfilling a precious duty–and I wrote.

[Springs to his feet.]
What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion, as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about such a case?

MR. X.
[Bored].

To be honest, your story does not quite convince me. There are holes in it,–but that may be clue to your not being able to remember all the details,–and I have read a few things about criminal inspirations–and I recall–h’m–but never mind. You have had your punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we won’t discuss it further.

MR. Y.
Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty.

MR. X.
But haven’t you that?

MR. Y.
No, I haven’t.

MR. X.
Well, you see, that’s what bothers me, that’s what bothers me. Don’t you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes, indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the criminal should be considered so too. It’s strange–well, it doesn’t matter; I’ll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never had any scruples.