The Dream Page #6

"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.

								

terror suddenly took possession of me. It seemed to me as though that
dead man knew that I had come thither, that he himself had arranged that
last meeting--it even seemed as though I could hear that dull, familiar
muttering.... I ran off to one side ... looked behind me once more....
Something shining caught my eye; it brought me to a standstill. It was
a golden hoop on the outstretched hand of the corpse.... I recognised my
mother's wedding-ring. I remember how I forced myself to return, to go
close, to bend down.... I remember the sticky touch of the cold fingers,
I remember how I panted and puckered up my eyes and gnashed my teeth, as
I tugged persistently at the ring....

At last I got it off--and I fled--fled away, in headlong flight,--and
something darted after me, and overtook me and caught me.

XVI

Everything which I had gone through and endured was, probably, written
on my face when I returned home. My mother suddenly rose upright as soon
as I entered her room, and gazed at me with such insistent inquiry that,
after having unsuccessfully attempted to explain myself, I ended by
silently handing her the ring. She turned frightfully pale, her eyes
opened unusually wide and turned dim like his.--She uttered a faint
cry, seized the ring, reeled, fell upon my breast, and fairly swooned
there, with her head thrown back and devouring me with those wide, mad
eyes. I encircled her waist with both arms, and standing still on one
spot, never stirring, I slowly narrated everything, without the
slightest reservation, to her, in a quiet voice: my dream and the
meeting, and everything, everything.... She heard me out to the end,
only her breast heaved more and more strongly, and her eyes suddenly
grew more animated and drooped. Then she put the ring on her fourth
finger, and, retreating a little, began to get out a mantilla and a hat.
I asked where she was going. She raised a surprised glance to me and
tried to answer, but her voice failed her. She shuddered several times,
rubbed her hands as though endeavouring to warm herself, and at last she
said: "Let us go at once thither."

"Whither, mother dear?"

"Where he is lying.... I want to see ... I want to know ... I shall
identify...."

I tried to persuade her not to go; but she was almost in hysterics. I
understood that it was impossible to oppose her desire, and we set out.

XVII

And lo, again I am walking over the sand of the dunes, but I am no
longer alone, I am walking arm in arm with my mother. The sea has
retreated, has gone still further away; it is quieting down; but even
its diminished roar is menacing and ominous. Here, at last, the solitary
rock has shown itself ahead of us--and there is the seaweed. I look
intently, I strive to distinguish that rounded object lying on the
ground--but I see nothing. We approach closer. I involuntarily retard my
steps. But where is that black, motionless thing? Only the stalks of the
seaweed stand out darkly against the sand, which is already dry.... We
go to the very rock.... The corpse is nowhere to be seen, and only on
the spot where it had lain there still remains a depression, and one can
make out where the arms and legs lay.... Round about the seaweed seems
tousled, and the traces of one man's footsteps are discernible; they go
across the down, then disappear on reaching the flinty ridge.

My mother and I exchange glances and are ourselves frightened at what we
read on our own faces....

Can he have got up of himself and gone away?

"But surely thou didst behold him dead?" she asks in a whisper.

I can only nod my head. Three hours have not elapsed since I stumbled
upon the baron's body.... Some one had discovered it and carried it
away.--I must find out who had done it, and what had become of him.

But first of all I must attend to my mother.

XVIII

While she was on her way to the fatal spot she was in a fever, but she
controlled herself. The disappearance of the corpse had startled her as
the crowning misfortune. She was stupefied. I feared for her reason.
With great difficulty I got her home. I put her to bed again; again I
called the doctor for her; but as soon as my mother partly recovered her
senses she at once demanded that I should instantly set out in search of
"that man." I obeyed. But, despite all possible measures, I discovered
nothing. I went several times to the police-office, I visited all the
villages in the neighbourhood, I inserted several advertisements in the
newspapers, I made inquiries in every direction--all in vain! It is true
that I did hear that a drowned man had been found at one of the hamlets
on the seashore.... I immediately hastened thither, but he was already
buried, and from all the tokens he did not resemble the baron. I found
out on what ship he had sailed for America. At first every one was
positive that that ship had perished during the tempest; but several
months afterward rumours began to circulate to the effect that it had
been seen at anchor in the harbour of New York. Not knowing what to do,
I set about hunting up the negro whom I had seen.--I offered him,
through the newspapers, a very considerable sum of money if he would
present himself at our house. A tall negro in a cloak actually did come
to the house in my absence.... But after questioning the servant-maid,
he suddenly went away and returned no more.

And thus the trace of my ... my father grew cold; thus did it vanish
irrevocably in the mute gloom. My mother and I never spoke of him. Only,
one day, I remember that she expressed surprise at my never having
alluded before to my strange dream; and then she added: "Of course, it
really ..." and did not finish her sentence.

My mother was ill for a long time, and after her convalescence our
former relations were not reëstablished. She felt awkward in my presence
until the day of her death.... Precisely that, awkward. And there was no
way of helping her in her grief. Everything becomes smoothed down, the
memories of the most tragic family events gradually lose their force and
venom; but if a feeling of awkwardness has been set up between two
closely-connected persons, it is impossible to extirpate it!

I have never again had that dream which had been wont so to disturb me;
I no longer "search for" my father; but it has sometimes seemed to
me--and it seems so to me to this day--that in my sleep I hear distant
shrieks, unintermittent, melancholy plaints; they resound somewhere
behind a lofty wall, across which it is impossible to clamber; they
rend my heart--and I am utterly unable to comprehend what it is: whether
it is a living man groaning, or whether I hear the wild, prolonged roar
of the troubled sea. And now it passes once more into that beast-like
growl--and I awake with sadness and terror in my soul.
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