Plays: Comrades; Facing Death; Pariah; Easter Part 26

[Pause.]

MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of b.u.mping into people?

MR. X. Yes.

MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward?

MR. X. No, I didn't want to.

MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been convicted?

MR. X. Yes, indeed.

[Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.]

MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly.

MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal att.i.tude towards people's conduct?

Are you a Christian?

MR. X. No,--of course I couldn't be,--as you've just heard. The Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who have served time, ought to understand that.

MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How--do--you--know--that?

MR. X. It's plain to be seen.

MR. Y. How? How can you see it?

MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave at the bank at Malmo when I go there with you tomorrow morning.

MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmo.

MR. X. No?

MR. Y. No.

MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless.

MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers--

MR. X.--Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,--and it was then that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here.

Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmo, where you have not gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America just to see Malmo; and every morning you have walked southward three miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmo; also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on the _state prison_. Do you see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid?

MR. Y. Now you hate me.

MR. X. No.

MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must.

MR. X. No--see, here's my hand.

MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand].

MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that?

MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after knowing--

MR. X.--And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on equal footing,--in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how it happened? Will you?

MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal.

You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say, involuntarily--[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord, spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!--Let me open the window a little. I think the thunder shower-has pa.s.sed over.

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.

MR. Y. [Very interested]. You--did?

MR. X. Yes--I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand?

MR. Y. [Cheerily]. Oh, what nonsense!

MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it.

MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get out of it?

MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days'

hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger, but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result that he never awakened again--he died on the spot.

MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up?

MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science.

Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life.

MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life?