The Dream

"The Dream" is a novella by Russian author Ivan Turgenev, exploring the themes of love, loss, and the complexity of human emotions. The story follows a man who experiences a vivid dream that deeply reflects his inner desires and regrets. Through this dream, Turgenev delves into the psyche of the protagonist, revealing the tensions between idealism and reality. The work is notable for its lyrical prose and poignant insights into the nature of dreams and their impact on our waking lives. Turgenev's exploration of the characters' emotional landscapes makes "The Dream" a significant contribution to the existential literature of the 19th century.

								
I

I was living with my mother at the time, in a small seaport town. I was
just turned seventeen, and my mother was only thirty-five; she had
married very young. When my father died I was only seven years old; but
I remembered him well. My mother was a short, fair-haired woman, with a
charming, but permanently-sad face, a quiet, languid voice, and timid
movements. In her youth she had borne the reputation of a beauty, and as
long as she lived she remained attractive and pretty. I have never
beheld more profound, tender, and melancholy eyes. I adored her, and she
loved me.... But our life was not cheerful; it seemed as though some
mysterious, incurable and undeserved sorrow were constantly sapping the
root of her existence. This sorrow could not be explained by grief for
my father alone, great as that was, passionately as my mother had loved
him, sacredly as she cherished his memory.... No! there was something
else hidden there which I did not understand, but which I felt,--felt
confusedly and strongly as soon as I looked at those quiet, impassive
eyes, at those very beautiful but also impassive lips, which were not
bitterly compressed, but seemed to have congealed for good and all.

I have said that my mother loved me; but there were moments when she
spurned me, when my presence was burdensome, intolerable to her. At such
times she felt, as it were, an involuntary aversion for me--and was
terrified afterward, reproaching herself with tears and clasping me to
her heart. I attributed these momentary fits of hostility to her
shattered health, to her unhappiness.... These hostile sentiments might
have been evoked, it is true, in a certain measure, by some strange
outbursts, which were incomprehensible even to me myself, of wicked and
criminal feelings which occasionally arose in me....

But these outbursts did not coincide with the moments of repulsion.--My
mother constantly wore black, as though she were in mourning. We lived
on a rather grand scale, although we associated with no one.

II

My mother concentrated upon me all her thoughts and cares. Her life was
merged in my life. Such relations between parents and children are not
always good for the children ... they are more apt to be injurious.
Moreover I was my mother's only child ... and only children generally
develop irregularly. In rearing them the parents do not think of
themselves so much as they do of them.... That is not practical. I did
not get spoiled, and did not grow obstinate (both these things happen
with only children), but my nerves were unstrung before their time; in
addition to which I was of rather feeble health--I took after my mother,
to whom I also bore a great facial resemblance. I shunned the society of
lads of my own age; in general, I was shy of people; I even talked very
little with my mother. I was fonder of reading than of anything else,
and of walking alone--and dreaming, dreaming! What my dreams were about
it would be difficult to say. It sometimes seemed to me as though I were
standing before a half-open door behind which were concealed hidden
secrets,--standing and waiting, and swooning with longing--yet not
crossing the threshold; and always meditating as to what there was
yonder ahead of me--and always waiting and longing ... or falling into
slumber. If the poetic vein had throbbed in me I should, in all
probability, have taken to writing verses; if I had felt an inclination
to religious devoutness I might have become a monk; but there was
nothing of the sort about me, and I continued to dream--and to wait.

III

I have just mentioned that I sometimes fell asleep under the inspiration
of obscure thoughts and reveries. On the whole, I slept a great deal,
and dreams played a prominent part in my life; I beheld visions almost
every night. I did not forget them, I attributed to them significance, I
regarded them as prophetic, I strove to divine their secret import. Some
of them were repeated from time to time, which always seemed to me
wonderful and strange. I was particularly perturbed by one dream. It
seems to me that I am walking along a narrow, badly-paved street in an
ancient town, between many-storied houses of stone, with sharp-pointed
roofs. I am seeking my father who is not dead, but is, for some reason,
hiding from us, and is living in one of those houses. And so I enter a
low, dark gate, traverse a long courtyard encumbered with beams and
planks, and finally make my way into a small chamber with two circular
windows. In the middle of the room stands my father, clad in a
dressing-gown and smoking a pipe. He does not in the least resemble my
real father: he is tall, thin, black-haired, he has a hooked nose,
surly, piercing eyes; in appearance he is about forty years of age. He
is displeased because I have hunted him up; and I also am not in the
least delighted at the meeting--and I stand still, in perplexity. He
turns away slightly, begins to mutter something and to pace to and fro
with short steps.... Then he retreats a little, without ceasing to
mutter, and keeps constantly casting glances behind him, over his
shoulder; the room widens out and vanishes in a fog.... I suddenly grow
terrified at the thought that I am losing my father again. I rush after
him--but I no longer see him, and can only hear his angry, bear-like
growl.... My heart sinks within me. I wake up, and for a long time
cannot get to sleep again.... All the following day I think about that
dream and, of course, am unable to arrive at any conclusion.

IV

The month of June had come. The town in which my mother and I lived
became remarkably animated at that season. A multitude of vessels
arrived at the wharves, a multitude of new faces presented themselves on
the streets. I loved at such times to stroll along the quay, past the
coffee-houses and inns, to scan the varied faces of the sailors and
other people who sat under the canvas awnings, at little white tables
with pewter tankards filled with beer.

One day, as I was passing in front of a coffee-house, I caught sight of
a man who immediately engrossed my entire attention. Clad in a long
black coat of peasant cut, with a straw hat pulled down over his eyes,
he was sitting motionless, with his arms folded on his chest. Thin
rings of black hair descended to his very nose; his thin lips gripped
the stem of a short pipe. This man seemed so familiar to me, every
feature of his swarthy, yellow face, his whole figure, were so
indubitably stamped on my memory, that I could not do otherwise than
halt before him, could not help putting to myself the question: "Who is
this man? Where have I seen him?" He probably felt my intent stare, for
he turned his black, piercing eyes upon me.... I involuntarily uttered a
cry of surprise....

This man was the father whom I had sought out, whom I had beheld in my
dream!

There was no possibility of making a mistake,--the resemblance was too
striking. Even the long-skirted coat, which enveloped his gaunt limbs,
reminded me, in colour and form, of the dressing-gown in which my father

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes