Mr. Y says
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 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- 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 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?