The Dream Page #2

"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.

								

had presented himself to me.

"Am not I dreaming?" I thought to myself.... "No.... It is daylight now,
a crowd is roaring round me, the sun is shining brightly in the blue
sky, and I have before me, not a phantom, but a living man."

I stepped up to an empty table, ordered myself a tankard of beer and a
newspaper, and seated myself at a short distance from this mysterious
being.

V

Placing the sheets of the newspaper on a level with my face, I continued
to devour the stranger with my eyes.--He hardly stirred, and only raised
his drooping head a little from time to time. He was evidently waiting
for some one. I gazed and gazed.... Sometimes it seemed to me that I had
invented the whole thing, that in reality there was no resemblance
whatever, that I had yielded to the semi-involuntary deception of the
imagination ... but "he" would suddenly turn a little on his chair,
raise his hand slightly, and again I almost cried aloud, again I beheld
before me my "nocturnal" father! At last he noticed my importunate
attention, and, first with surprise, then with vexation, he glanced in
my direction, started to rise, and knocked down a small cane which he
had leaned against the table. I instantly sprang to my feet, picked it
up and handed it to him. My heart was beating violently.

He smiled in a constrained way, thanked me, and putting his face close
to my face, he elevated his eyebrows and parted his lips a little, as
though something had struck him.

"You are very polite, young man," he suddenly began, in a dry, sharp,
snuffling voice.--"That is a rarity nowadays. Allow me to congratulate
you. You have been well brought up."

I do not remember precisely what answer I made to him; but the
conversation between us was started. I learned that he was a
fellow-countryman of mine, that he had recently returned from America,
where he had lived many years, and whither he was intending to return
shortly. He said his name was Baron.... I did not catch the name well.
He, like my "nocturnal" father, wound up each of his remarks with an
indistinct, inward growl. He wanted to know my name.... On hearing it he
again showed signs of surprise. Then he asked me if I had been living
long in that town, and with whom? I answered him that I lived with my
mother.

"And your father?"

"My father died long ago."

He inquired my mother's Christian name, and immediately burst into an
awkward laugh--and then excused himself, saying that he had that
American habit, and that altogether he was a good deal of an eccentric.
Then he asked where we lived. I told him.

VI

The agitation which had seized upon me at the beginning of our
conversation had gradually subsided; I thought our intimacy rather
strange--that was all. I did not like the smile with which the baron
questioned me; neither did I like the expression of his eyes when he
fairly stabbed them into me.... There was about them something rapacious
and condescending ... something which inspired dread. I had not seen
those eyes in my dream. The baron had a strange face! It was pallid,
fatigued, and, at the same time, youthful in appearance, but with a
disagreeable youthfulness! Neither had my "nocturnal" father that deep
scar, which intersected his whole forehead in a slanting direction, and
which I did not notice until I moved closer to him.

Before I had had time to impart to the baron the name of the street and
the number of the house where we lived, a tall negro, wrapped up in a
cloak to his very eyes, approached him from behind and tapped him softly
on the shoulder. The baron turned round, said: "Aha! At last!" and
nodding lightly to me, entered the coffee-house with the negro. I
remained under the awning. I wished to wait until the baron should come
out again, not so much for the sake of entering again into conversation
with him (I really did not know what topic I could start with), as for
the purpose of again verifying my first impression.--But half an hour
passed; an hour passed.... The baron did not make his appearance. I
entered the coffee-house, I made the circuit of all the rooms--but
nowhere did I see either the baron or the negro.... Both of them must
have taken their departure through the back door.

My head had begun to ache a little, and with the object of refreshing
myself I set out along the seashore to the extensive park outside the
town, which had been laid out ten years previously. After having
strolled for a couple of hours in the shade of the huge oaks and
plaintain-trees, I returned home.

VII

Our maid-servant flew to meet me, all tremulous with agitation, as soon
as I made my appearance in the anteroom. I immediately divined, from the
expression of her face, that something unpleasant had occurred in our
house during my absence.--And, in fact, I learned that half an hour
before a frightful shriek had rung out from my mother's bedroom. When
the maid rushed in she found her on the floor in a swoon which lasted
for several minutes. My mother had recovered consciousness at last, but
had been obliged to go to bed, and wore a strange, frightened aspect;
she had not uttered a word, she had not replied to questions--she had
done nothing but glance around her and tremble. The servant had sent the
gardener for a doctor. The doctor had come and had prescribed a soothing
potion, but my mother had refused to say anything to him either. The
gardener asserted that a few moments after the shriek had rung out from
my mother's room he had seen a strange man run hastily across the
flower-plots of the garden to the street gate. (We lived in a one-story
house, whose windows looked out upon a fairly large garden.) The
gardener had not been able to get a good look at the man's face; but the
latter was gaunt, and wore a straw hat and a long-skirted coat.... "The
baron's costume!" immediately flashed into my head.--The gardener had
been unable to overtake him; moreover, he had been summoned, without
delay, to the house and despatched for the doctor.

I went to my mother's room; she was lying in bed, whiter than the pillow
on which her head rested.... At sight of me she smiled faintly, and put
out her hand to me. I sat down by her side, and began to question her;
at first she persistently parried my questions; but at last she
confessed that she had seen something which had frightened her greatly.

"Did some one enter here?" I asked.

"No," she answered hastily, "no one entered, but it seemed to me ... I
thought I saw ... a vision...."

She ceased speaking and covered her eyes with her hand. I was on the
point of communicating to her what I had heard from the gardener--and
my meeting with the baron also, by the way ... but, for some reason or
other, the words died on my lips.

Nevertheless I did bring myself to remark to my mother that visions do
not manifest themselves in the daylight....
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