“To take care of their own affairs. They have called me a man hater—Frau G——, who has the confections in the next corridor but two, called me that because I would not receive her son. The truth is that I do not care for people of either sex, young or old. If I want to live by myself and keep my own things to myself, is it not my right to do so?”
“I am sure it is, but undoubtedly it has occurred to you that this person you fear so much may be a rejected suitor who is taking his revenge on you.”
“But how could he enter and control my dreams?”
“I do not know, fraulein. It is you who say that he does these things.”
“I should remember him, I think, if he had ever called on me. As it is, I am quite certain I have seen him somewhere, but I cannot recall where. Still . . .”
“Perhaps you had better describe your dream to me. You have the same one again and again, as I understand it?”
“Yes. It is like this. I am walking down a dark road. I am both frightened and pleasurably excited, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I walk for a long time, sometimes for what seems to be only a few moments. I think there is moonlight, and once or twice I have noticed stars. Anyway, there is a high, dark hedge, or perhaps a wall, on my right. There are fields to the left, I believe. Eventually I reach a gate of iron bars, standing open—it’s not a large gate for wagons or carriages, but a small one, so narrow I can hardly get through. Have you read the writings of Dr. Freud of Vienna? One of the women here mentioned once that he had written concerning dreams, and so I got them from the library, and if I were a man I am sure he would say that entering that gate meant sexual commerce. Do you think I might have unnatural leanings?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Have you ever felt such desires?”
“Oh, no. Quite the reverse.”
“Then I doubt it very much,” I said. “Go on with your dream. How do you feel as you pass through the gate?”
“As I did when walking down the road, but more so—more frightened, and yet happy and excited. Triumphant, in a way.”
“Go on.”
“I am in the garden now. There are fountains playing, and nightingales singing in the willows. The air smells of lilies, and a cherry tree in blossom looks like a giantess in her bridal gown. I walk on a straight, smooth path; I think it must be paved with marble chips, because it is white in the moonlight. Ahead of me is the
“What sort of music?”
“Magnificent—joyous, if you know what I am trying to say, but not the tinklings of a theater orchestra. A great symphony. I have never been to the opera at Bayreuth, but I think it must be like that—yet a happy, quick tune.”
She paused, and for an instant her smile recovered the remembered music. “There are pillars, and a grand entrance, with broad steps. I run up—I am so happy to be there—and throw open the door. It is brightly lit inside; a wave of golden light, almost like a wave from the ocean, strikes me. The room is a great hall, with a high ceiling. A long table is set in the middle and there are hundreds of people seated at it, but one place, the one nearest me, is empty. I cross to it and sit down; there are beautiful golden loaves on the table, and bowls of honey with roses floating at their centers, and crystal carafes of wine, and many other good things I cannot remember when I awake. Everyone is eating and drinking and talking, and I begin to eat too.”
I said, “It is only a dream, fraulein. There is no reason to weep.”
“I dream this each night—I have dreamed so every night for months.”
“Go on.”
“Then he comes. I am sure he is the one who is causing me to dream like this because I can see his face clearly, and remember it when the dream is over. Sometimes it is very vivid for an hour or more after I wake—so vivid that I have only to close my eyes to see it before me.”
“I will ask you to describe him in detail later. For the present, continue with your dream.”
“He is tall, and robed like a king, and there is a strange crown on his head. He stands beside me, and though he says nothing, I know that the etiquette of the place demands that I rise and face him. I do this. Sometimes I am sucking my fingers as I get up from his table.”
“He owns the dream palace, then.”
“Yes, I am sure of that. It is his castle, his home; he is my host. I stand and face him, and I am conscious of wanting very much to please him, but not knowing what it is I should do.”
“That must be painful.”
“It is. But as I stand there, I become aware of how I am clothed, and—”
“How are you clothed?”
“As you see me now. In a plain, dark dress—the dress I wear here at the arcade. But the others—all up and down the hall, all up and down the table—are wearing the dresses I sell here. These dresses.” She held one up for me to see, a beautiful creation of many layers of lace, with buttons of polished jet. “I know then that I cannot remain; but the king signals to the others, and they seize me and push me toward the door.”
“You are humiliated then?”
“Yes, but the worst thing is that I am aware that he knows that I could never drive myself to leave, and he wishes to spare me the struggle. But outside—some terrible beast has entered the garden. I smell it—like the hyena cage at the Tiergarten—as the door opens. And then I wake up.”
“It is a harrowing dream.”
