Mr. X. No.
Mr. Y. Yes, you do; you must do so.
Mr. X. No. See, here’s my hand on it. [Mr. Y. kisses the outstretched hand. Mr. X. takes back his hand.] What bestial fawning!
Mr. Y. Forgive me! but you were the first man, sir, who held out his hand to me after he knew
Mr. X. And now you start calling me “Sir.” It appalls me that, after you’ve served your sentence, you don’t feel you can hold your head up, and start with a clean sheet, on the level, just as good as anybody else. Will you tell me all about it? Will you?
Mr. Y.[Wriggles.] Yes; but you won’t believe what I tell you. I’ll tell you about it, and you’ll see that I’m not just an ordinary criminal, and you’ll be convinced that my fall took place, as one says, against my will. [Wriggles.] Just as though it came of itself—spontaneously—without free will and as though one couldn’t help it. Let me open the door a little. I think the thunder has passed over.
Mr. X. If you wouldn’t mind.
Mr. Y.[Opens the door, then sits on the table and tells his story with frigid enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and affected intonation.] Yes, do you see, I was a student at Lind, and once I wanted a loan from the bank. I had no serious debts, and my governor had a little property, but not much, you know. In the meanwhile I had sent the bill to another man to back, and contrary to all my expectations I got it back with a refusal. For a whole hour I sat stupefied by the blow; you see, it was a most unpleasant surprise, most unpleasant. The document happened to be lying on the table. Close by was the letter. My eyes wandered first over the fatal lines that contained my doom—as a matter of fact it wasn’t my death sentence, because I could quite easily have got somebody else to back it, as a matter of fact as many people as I wanted, but, as I said, it was very unpleasant as things stood, and as I was sitting there in my innocence my gaze became gradually riveted on that signature on the letter, which, if only in its right place, would perhaps have saved my future. The signature was just a piece of ordinary handwriting—you know how, when you’re thinking about something else, you can sit down and fill a piece of blotting paper with absolute nonsense. I had a pen in my hand. [Takes up the pen.] See here, and, just like this, it began to move. I’m not going to contend that there was anything mystical—anything spiritualistic—at the back of it, because I don’t believe in all that stuff, it was simply a purely mechanical thoughtless process, as I sat and copied that pretty signature time after time—of course without any intention of making any advantage out of it. When the sheet had been covered I had acquired a complete proficiency in signing the name. [Throws the pen quickly away.] And then I forgot all about it. All night I slept deeply and heavily, and when I woke up I felt as though I had dreamed, but could not remember my dream; at times it seemed as though a door were ajar and I saw the writing table with a bill on it just like mine, and when I got up I went straight up to that table just as though I had after mature consideration made the irrevocable resolution to write the name on that blank piece of paper. All thought of consequences—of risks—had vanished; there was no hesitation— it was just as though I was fulfilling a solemn duty—and I wrote. [Springs.] What could it have been?
Is it a case of inspiration or suggestion? But from whom? I had slept alone in the room. Could it have been the primitive part of my ego, the savage part, which was a stranger to all progress, which in the working of my sub-consciousness during sleep- had come along with its criminal will and its inability to calculate the consequences of an act? Tell me, what do you think of the matter?
Mr. X.[Torturing him.] Quite frankly, your story does not satisfy me completely. I find gaps in it, but that may be because you haven’t remembered the details, and as to criminal suggestion, which I’ve read a fair amount about, I’ll try and remember—hm! But it all comes to the same thing—you’ve served your punishment—and you’ve had the pluck to own up to the error of your ways. Now don’t let’s talk any more about it.