Tuesday, 20 December 2022

Tuesday's Serial "The Mystery of the Sea" by Bram Stoker (in English) - XVIII

 

CHAPTER XL - THE REDEMPTION OF A TRUST

“Senor, you may wonder why I am here, and why I would speak with you alone and in secret. You have seen me only in a place, which though my own by birthright, was dominated by the presence of ladies, who alas! by their nationality and the stress of war were mine enemies. From you is not such. Our nations are at peace, and there is no personal reason why we should not be of the most friendly. I come to you, Senor, because it is borne to me that you are cavalier. You can be secret if you will, and you will recognise the claims of honour and duty, of the highest. The common people know it not; and for the dear ladies who have their own honour, our duties in such are not a part of their lives—nay! they are beyond and above the life as it is to us. I need not tell you of a secret duty of my family, for it is known to me that all of such is already with you. The secret of the Pope’s treasure and of the duty of my House to guard and restore it has been in your mind. Oh yes, this I know” for he saw I was about to speak. “Have I not seen in your hands that portion of the book, so long lost!” Here he stopped and his eyes narrowed; some thought of danger, necessitating caution, had come to him. I, too, was silent; I wanted to think. Unless I had utterly misconceived him, he had made an extraordinary admission; one which had given him away completely. The only occasion on which I had seen him was when he had pointed out to us that the pages which I had found belonged to the book in the library. It is true that we had suggested to him that there was a cipher in the marking of the letters, but he had not acknowledged it. At the time he certainly did not convey the idea to us that he believed we had grasped the secret. How then did he know; or on what assumption did he venture to state that I knew his secret. Here was a difficult point to pass. If I were silent he would take all for granted; in such case I might not learn anything of his purpose. So I spoke:

“Your pardon, Sir, but you presume a knowledge on my part of some secret history of your family and of a treasure of the Pope; and then account for it that you have seen in my hand the book, a part of which was long lost. Am I to take it that because there is, or may be, a secret, any one who suspects that there is one must know it?” The steady eyes of the Spaniard closed, narrower and narrower still, till the pupils looked like those of a cat in the dark; a narrow slit with a cavern of fire within. For fully half a minute he continued to look at me steadily, and I own that I felt disconcerted. In this matter he had the advantage of me. I knew that what he said was true; I did know the secret of the buried treasure. He had some way of knowing the extent of my knowledge of the matter. He was, so far, all truth; I was prevaricating—and we both knew it! All at once he spoke; as though his mind were made up, and he would speak openly and frankly. The frankness of a Latin was a fell and strange affair:

“Why shall we beat about the bush. I know; you know; and we both know that the other knows. I have read what you have written of the secret which you have drawn from those marked pages of the law book.”

As he spoke the whole detail of his visit to Crom rose before me. At that time he had only seen the printed pages of the cipher; he had not seen my transcript which had lain, face down, upon the table. We had turned it, on hearing some one coming in.

“Then you have been to the castle again!” I said suddenly. My object was to disconcert him, but it did not succeed. In his saturnine frankness had been a complete intention, which was now his protection against surprise.

“Yes!” he said slowly, and with a smile which showed his teeth, like the wolf’s to Red Ridinghood.

“Strange, they did not tell me at Crom,” I said as though to myself.

“They did not know!” he answered. “When next I visited my own house, it was at night, and by a way not known, save to myself.” As he spoke, the canine teeth began to show. He knew that what he had to tell was wrong; and being determined to brazen it out, the cruelty which lay behind his strength became manifest at once. Somehow at that moment the racial instinct manifested itself. Spain was once the possession of the Moors, and the noblest of the old families had some black blood in them. In Spain, such is not, as in the West, a taint. The old diabolism whence sprung fantee and hoo-doo seemed to gleam out in the grim smile of incarnate, rebellious purpose. It was my cue to throw my antagonist off his guard; to attack the composite character in such way that one part would betray the other.

“Strange!” I said, as though to myself again. “To come in secret into a house occupied by another is amongst civilised people regarded as an offence!”

“The house is my own!” he retorted quickly, with a swarthy flush.

“Strange, again!” I said. “When Mrs. Jack rented the castle, there was no clause in her agreement of a right to the owner to enter by a secret way! On the contrary such rights as the owner reserved were exactly specified.”

“A man has a right to enter his own house, when and how he will; and to protect the property which is being filched from him by strangers!” He said the last words with such manifest intention of offence that I stood on guard. Evidently he wanted to anger me, as I had angered him. I determined that thenceforward I should not let anything which he might say ruffle me. I replied with deliberate exasperation:

“The law provides remedies for any wrongs done. It does not, that I know of, allow a man to enter secretly into a house that he has let to another. There is an implied contract of peaceful possession, unless entry be specified in the agreement.” He answered disdainfully:

“My agent had no right to let, without protecting such a right.”

“Ah, but he did; and in law we are bound by the acts of our agents. ‘Facit per alium’ is a maxim of law. And as to filching, let me tell you that all your property at Crom is intact. The pieces of paper that you claimed were left in the book; and the book has remained as you yourself placed it on the shelf. I have Mrs. Jack’s word that it would be so.” He was silent; so, as it was necessary that the facts as they existed should be spoken of between us, I went on:

“Am I to take it that you read the private papers on the table of the library during your nocturnal visit? By the way, I suppose it was nocturnal.”

“It was.”

“Then sir,” I spoke sharply now, “who has done the filching? We—Miss Drake and I—by chance discovered those papers. As a matter of fact they were in an oaken chest which I bought at an auction in the streets of Peterhead. We suspected a cipher and worked at it till we laid bare the mystery. This is what we have done; we who were even ignorant of your name! Now, what have you done? You come as an admitted guest, by permission, into a house taken in all good faith by strangers. When there you recognised some papers which had been lost. We restored them to you. Honour demanded that you should have been open with us after this. Did you ask if we had discovered the secret of the trust? No! You went away openly; and came back like a thief in the night and filched our secret. Yes sir, you did!” He had raised his hand in indignant protest. “It was our secret then, not yours. Had you interpreted the secret cipher for yourself, you would have been within your rights; and I should have had nothing to say. We offered to let you take the book with you; but you refused. It is evident that you did not know the whole secret of the treasure. That you knew there was a treasure and a secret I admit; but the key of it, which we had won through toil, you stole from us!”

“Senor!” the voice was peremptory and full of all that was best and noblest in the man. “A de Escoban is not wont to hear such an allegation; and he who makes such shall in the end have his own death to answer for!” He stopped suddenly, and at his stopping I exulted secretly; though I wished to punish him for his insinuation that Marjory had filched from him, I had no desire to become entangled in a duel. I was determined to go on, however; for I would not, at any hazard, pass a slight upon my peerless wife. I think that his sudden pause meant thought; and thought meant a peaceful solution of things on my own lines. Nevertheless, I went on forcing the issue:

“I rejoice, sir, that you are not accustomed to hear such allegations; I trust that you are also not accustomed to deserve them!” By this time he was calm again, icily calm. It was wonderful with what rapidity, and how widely, the pendulum of his nature swung between pride and passion. All at once he smiled again, the same deadly, dreadful smile which he imagined to be the expression of frankness.

“I see I am punished! ’Twas I that first spoke of stealing. Senor, you have shown me that I was wrong. My pardon to that so good lady who is guest of my house; and also to that other patriotic one who so adorns it. Now let me say, since to defend myself is thrust upon me, that you, who have, with so much skill made clear the hidden mystery of that law book which I have only lately read, know best of all men how I am bound to do all things to protect my trust. I am bound, despite myself, even if it were not a duty gladly undertaken for the sake of the dead. It was not I who so undertook; but still I am bound even more than he who did. I stand between law and honour, between life and death, helpless. Senor, were you in my place, would you not, too, have acted as I did? Would you not do so, knowing that there was a secret which you could not even try to unravel, since long ago that in which it was hidden had been stolen or lost. Would you not do so, knowing, too, that some other—in all good faith and innocence let us say—had already made discovery which might mock your hopes and nullify the force of that long vigil, to which ten generations of men, giving up all else, had sacrificed themselves? Would not you, too, have come in secret and made what discovery you could. Discovery of your own, mark you! Would not also that lady so patriotic, to whom all things come after that devotion to her country, which so great she holds?”

Whilst he was speaking I had been thinking. The pretence of ignorance was all over to both of us; he knew our knowledge of the secret trust, and we knew that he knew. The only thing of which he was yet ignorant, was that we had discovered the treasure itself. There was nothing to be gained by disputing points of conjectural morals. Of course he was right; had either Marjory or myself considered ourselves bound by such a duty as lay so heavy on him we should have done the same. I bowed as I answered;

“Sir, you are right! Any man who held to such a duty would have done the same.”

“Senor,” he answered quickly, “I thank you with all my heart!” Poor fellow, at that moment I pitied him. The sudden flash of joy that leaped to his face showed by reaction in what a hell he must have of late been living. This momentary episode seemed to have wiped away all his bitterness; it was in quite a different way that he spoke again:

“And now, Senor, since your engaging frankness has made my heart so glad, may I ask further of your kindness. Believe me that it is not of my own will, but from an unbending sense of duty that I do and may have to do such things; my life till lately has been otherwise, oh! so much so! You have the feelings of honour yourself; like me you are also man of the world, and as such we can sacrifice all things save honour. Is there no way in which you can aid me to fulfill my trust; and let there be peace between us?” He looked at me anxiously; I said:

“I fear I hardly understand?” With manifest embarrassment he went on;

“You will forgive me if I err again; but this time I must make myself clear. It is manifest to me that in these days of science nothing can long remain hidden, when once a clue has been found. You already know so much that I am placed almost as though the treasure has already been found. Thereafter where am I; what am I? One who has failed in his trust. Who has allowed another to step in; and so dishonour him! A moment, Senor, and I am done,” for he saw that I was about to speak. “It is not the treasure itself that I value, but the trust. If I could make it safe by the sacrifice of all my possessions I would gladly do so. Senor, you are still free. You have but to abandon your quest. It is not to you a duty; and therefore you sacrifice naught of honour should you abandon it. Here I pledge to you—and, oh Senor, I pray have patience that you take no affront that I do so—that in such case I shall give to you all that I have. Give it gladly! So, I may redeem the trust of my House; and go out into the wide world, though it may be as a beggar, yet free—free! Oh! pause, Senor, and think. I am rich in the world’s goods. My ancestors were of vast wealth; even at that time when the great Bernardino did give his ship to his king. And for three centuries all have been prudent; and all their possessions have grown. There are vast lands of corn, great forests, many castles, whole ranges of mountains as yet untouched for their varied treasures which are vast. There are seaports and villages; and in all, the dwellers are happy and content. I am the last of my race. There is none to inherit; so I am free to pledge myself.” He did not bow or bend; there was no persistence of request in his voice, or tone, or manner. In all there was no feeling of a bargain. It was an offer, based on the fulfillment of his own desires; given in such a lordly way that there could be no offence in it. He recognised so thoroughly the strength of my own position, that the base side of barter became obliterated; it was an exchange of goods between gentlemen. Such, at least, I recognised was his intellectual position; my own remained the same. How could I, or any man, take advantage of such an offer. After thinking a few seconds I said to him:

“Sir, you have honoured me by grouping us as men of honour. What would you do in my place?” His eye brightened, and his breath came more quickly as he replied:

“Were it my case, I should say: ‘Senor, your duty is one of honour; mine is one of gain. There can be no comparisons. Fulfill your debt to your forefathers! Redeem the pledge that they have made in your name! Discover your treasure; and be free!’” There was infinite pride in his voice and manner; I think he really meant what he said. I went on with my questioning:

“And what about the taking of your estate as a reward of forbearance?”

He shrugged his shoulders: “For that,” he said, “it matters not.”

“Ah, for you to give you mean?” He nodded.

“But what for me to take? Would you do so in my place?” He was manifestly in a dilemma. I could see something of the working of his mind in his face. If he said he would himself take it, he would manifestly lower himself in his own eyes; and to such pride as his, his own self-respect was more than the respect of others, in proportion to his self-value. If he said he would not, then he might peril his chance of getting what he desired. The temptation was a cruel one; with all my heart I honoured him for his answer, given with the fullness of his mighty pride:

“Senor, I can die; I cannot stoop! But what avails my own idea? The answer is not for me! I have offered all I have. I will in addition pledge myself to hold my life at your service when this great trust is relieved. To this my honour is guardian; you need not fear it shall be redeemed! Now Senor, you have my answer! To redeem the trust of my sires I give all I have in the world, except my honour! The answer rests with you!”

 

CHAPTER XLI - TREASURE TROVE

There was no doubt that the Spaniard’s devotion to his cause placed me in a considerable difficulty. I could not disguise from myself that he put forward a very strong claim for the consideration of one gentleman by another. It was only on hurriedly thinking the matter over that the weakness of his cause was apparent. Had the whole affair been a private or personal one; had the treasure belonged to his ancestors, I should have found it in my own heart a very difficult matter to gainsay him, and be subsequently at ease with myself. I remembered, however, that the matter was a public one. The treasure was collected by enemies of England for the purpose of destroying England’s liberty, and so the liberty of the whole human race for which it made. It was sent in charge of a personal enemy of the country in a ship of war, one of many built for the purpose of invading and conquering England. In time of national stress, when the guns were actually thundering along our coast from the Thames to the Tyne, the treasure had been hidden so as to preserve it for future use in its destined way. Though centuries had passed, it was still held in mind; and the very men who had guarded it were, whilst professing to be Britons, secret enemies of the country, and devoted to her ultimate undoing. Beyond this again, there was another reason for not giving it up which appealed to me more strongly than the claim of my own natural duty, because it came to me through Marjory. Though Spain was at peace with my country, it was at war with hers; the treasure collected to harm England might—nay, would—be used to harm America. Spain was impoverished to the last degree. Her treasuries were empty, her unpaid soldiers clamourous for their arrears. Owing to want at home, there was in places something like anarchy; abroad there was such lack of all things, ships, men, stores, cannon, ammunition, that the evil of want came across the seas to the statesmen of the Quirinal with heart-breaking persistence. America, unprepared for war at first, was day by day becoming better equipped. The panic had abated which had set in on the seaboard towns from Maine to California, when each found itself at the mercy of a Spanish fleet sweeping the seas, no man knew where. Now if ever, money would be of value to impoverished Spain. This great treasure, piled up by the Latin for the conquering of the Anglo-Saxon, and rescued from its burial of three centuries, would come in the nick of time to fulfill its racial mission; though that mission might be against a new branch of the ancient foe of Spain, whose roots only had been laid when the great Armada swept out in all its pride and glory on its conquering essay. I needed no angel to tell me what would be Marjory’s answer, were such a proposition made to her. I could see in my mind’s eye the uprearing of her tall figure in all its pride and beauty, the flashing of her eyes with that light of patriotic fire which I knew so well, the set of her mouth, the widening of her nostril, the wrinkling of her ivory forehead as the brows were raised in scorn——

“Sir,” said I with what dignity I had, “the matter is not for you or me to decide. Not for us both! This is an affair of two nations, or rather of three: The Papacy, the Spaniard, the Briton. Nay, it touches another also, for the lady who shares the secret with me represents the country with which your nation is at war!” The Spaniard was manifestly baffled; the red, hellish light shone in his eyes again. His anger found expression in a sneer:

“Ah! so I suppose you do not propose to deal with the treasure, when found, as a private matter; but shall hand it over to your government to deal with!” The best answer to his scorn was complacency; so I said quietly:

“There again we are in a difficulty. You see, my dear fellow, no one exactly knows how we stand in this matter. The law of Treasure Trove, as we call it in this country, is in a most chaotic state. I have been looking it up since I undertook this quest; and I am rather surprised that in all the years that have elapsed since our practical law-making began, nothing has been done to put such matters on an exact basis. The law, such as it is, seems to rest on Royal Prerogative; but what the base of that prerogative is, no one seems exactly to know. And besides, in the various constitutional changes, and the customs of different dynasties, there are, or certainly there may be, barriers to the assertion of any Crown right—certainly to the fulfillment of such!” He seemed staggered. He had manifestly never regarded the matter as other than the recovery of property entrusted to him through his ancestors. I took advantage of his mental disturbance; and as I myself wanted time to think, so that I might fix on some course of action which would suit Marjory’s wishes as well as my own, I began to tell him the impression left on my mind by such study of the subject of Treasure Trove as I had been able to achieve. I quoted now and again from notes made in my pocket book.

“The Scotch law is much the same as the English; and as we are in Scotland, we are of course governed by the former. The great point of difference, seen with the eyes of a finder, is that in Scotland the fraudulent concealment of Treasure Trove is not a criminal offence, as it is in England. Thus, from my point of view, I have nothing to fear as to results; for though by the General Police Act the finder is bound to report the find to the Chief Constable, the statute only applies to things found on roads or in public places. So far as this treasure is concerned, it may turn out that it can, in a sense, be no treasure trove at all.”—

“According to Blackstone, treasure trove is where any money or coin, gold, silver, plate or bullion is found hidden in the earth or other private place, the owner thereof being unknown. If found upon the earth, or in the sea, it belongs, not to the Crown, but to the finder, if no owner appears. It is the hiding, not the abandoning, which gives the Crown the property.”—

“Coin or bullion found at the bottom of a lake or in the bed of a river is not treasure trove. It is not hidden in the earth.”—

“The right of the Crown is ... limited to gold or silver, bullion or coin. It extends to nothing else.”...

When I had got thus far the Spaniard interrupted me:

“But sir, in all these that you say, the rights of the owner seem to be recognised even in your law.”

“Ah, but there comes in again a fresh difficulty; or rather a fresh series of difficulties, beginning with what is, in the eye of the law, the ‘owner.’ Let us for a moment take your case. You claim this treasure—if it can be found—as held by you for the original possessor. The original possessor was, I take it, the Pope, who sent it with the Armada, to be used for the conversion or subduing of England. We will take the purpose later, but in the meantime we are agreed that the original owner was Pope Sixtus V. Now, the Popedom is an office, and on the death of one incumbent his successor takes over all his rights and powers and privileges whatever they may be. Thus, the Pope of to-day stands in exactly the same position as did Pope Sixtus V, when he sent through King Philip, and in trust of Bernardino de Escoban the aforesaid treasure.” I felt that the words ‘aforesaid treasure’ sounded very legal; it helped to consolidate even my own ideas as I went along. “So, too, you as the representative of your own family, are in the same position of original trustee as was your great ancestor of which this record takes cognisance.” This too was convincingly legal in sound. “I do not think that British law would recognise your position, or that of your predecessors in the trust, in the same way as it would the continuation of the ownership, if any, on the part of the succession of the Popes. However, for the sake of the argument, let us take it they would be of equal force. If this be so, the claim of ownership and guardianship would be complete.” As I paused, the Spaniard who had been listening to me with pent up breath, breathed more freely. With a graceful movement, which was almost a bow, he said:

“If so that you recognise the continued ownership, and if you speak as the exponent of the British law, wherein then is the difficulty of ownership at all; should it be that the treasure may be found?” Here was the real difficulty of both my own argument and Don Bernardino’s. For my own part, I had not the faintest idea of what the law might be; but I could see easily enough that great issues might be raised for the British side against the Spanish. As I had to ‘bluff’ my opponent to a certain extent, I added the impressions of personal conviction to my manner as I answered:

 “Have you considered what you, or rather your predecessors in title and trust, have done to forfeit any rights which you may have had?” He paled and was visibly staggered; it was evident that this view of the question had not entered his mind. The mere suggestion of the matter now opened up for him grave possibilities. His lips grew dry, and it was with a voice hoarser than hitherto that, after a pause, he said:

“Go on!”

“This treasure was sent, in time of war, by the enemies of England, for the purpose of her undoing—that is her undoing from the point of view of the established government of the time. It was in itself an act of war. The very documents that could, or can, prove the original ownership, would serve to prove the hostile intent of such owners in sending it. Remember, that it came in a warship, one of the great Armada built and brought together to attack this country. The owner of the treasure, the Pope, gave it in trust for the cestui que trust, the King of Spain to your ancestor Bernardino de Escoban, as hereditary trustee. Your ancestor himself had the battleship San Cristobal built at his own cost for the King’s service in the war against England. You see, they were all—the individual as well as the nation—hostile to England; and the intention of evil towards that country, what British law calls ‘malice prepense’ or the ‘mens rea’ was manifest in all!” The Spaniard watched me intently; I could see by the darkening of his swarthy face and the agonised contraction of his brows that the argument was striking home to his very heart. The man was so distressed that, enemy as I felt him to be, it was with a pang that I went on:

“It remains to be seen what view the British law would take of your action, or what is the same, that of your predecessor in the trust, in hiding the treasure in the domains of Britain. As a foreigner you would not have, I take it, a right in any case. And certainly, as a foreigner in arms against this country, you would have—could have—no right in either domestic or international law. The right was forfeit on landing from your warship in time of war on British shores!”

There was a long pause. Now that I came to piece out into an argument the scattered fragments of such legal matters as I had been able to learn, and my own ideas on the subject, the resulting argument was stronger than I had at first imagined. A whole host of collateral matters also cropped up. As I was expounding the law, as I saw it, the subject took me away with it:

“This question would then naturally arise: if the forfeiture of the rights of the original owner would confer a right upon the Crown of Britain, standing as it does in such a matter as the ‘remainder man.’ Also whether the forfeited treasure having been hidden, being what the law calls ‘bona vacantia,’ can be acquired by the finder, subject to the law relating to the Royal prerogative. In both the above cases there would arise points of law. In either, for instance, the nature of the treasure might limit the Crown claim as over against an individual claiming rights as finder.”

“How so?” asked Don Bernardino. He was recovering his sang froid, and manifestly was wishful to reassert himself.

“According to the statement of Don Bernardino, which would assuredly be adduced in evidence on either side, the treasure was, or is, of various classes; coined money, bullion, gems and jewel work. By one of the extracts which I have read you, the Crown prerogative only applies to precious metals or bullion. Gems or jewellery are therefore necessarily excluded; for it could not, I think, be claimed that such baubles were contraband of war.”

“Again, the place of hiding may make a bar to Crown claim as treasure trove. According to the cipher narrative the place of hiding was a sea cave. This could not be either ‘on’ the ground, which would give title to the finder; or ‘in’ the ground which would give Crown claim. But beyond this again, there might arise the question as to whether the treasure should in any way come into the purview of the law at all. You will remember, in one of my excerpts Blackstone excepts the sea from the conditions of treasure trove. It might have to be fought out in the Law Courts, right up to the House of Lords which is our final Court of Appeal, whether the definition of ‘sea’ would include a cave into which the tide ran.” Here I stopped; my argument was exhausted of present possibilities. The Spaniard’s thought now found a voice:

“But still ownership might be proved. Our nations have been at peace ever since that unhappy time of the Invincible Armada. Nay more, have not the nations fought side by side in the Peninsula! Besides, at no time has there been war between England and the Pope, even when his priests were proscribed and hunted, and imprisoned when captured. The friendship of these countries would surely give a base for the favourable consideration of an international claim. Even if there may have been a constructive forfeiture, such was never actually exacted; England might, in her wisdom, yield the point to a friendly nation, when three hundred years had elapsed.” Here another idea struck me.

“Of course” I said “such might be so. England is rich and need not enforce her right to a treasure, however acquired. But let me remind you that lawyers are very tenacious of points of law, and this would have to be decided by lawyers who are the servants of the state and the advisers of the governments. Such would, no doubt, be guided by existing principles of law, even if the specific case were not on all fours with precedents. I learn that in India, which is governed by laws made by Britons and consonant with the scheme of British law, there is actually an act in existence which governs Treasure Trove. By this, the magisterial decision can be held over to allow the making of a claim of previous ownership within a hundred years. So you see that by analogy your claim of three hundred years of peace would put you clean out of court.” We both remained silent. Then the Spaniard, with a long sigh, rose up and said courteously:

“I thank you Senor, for the audience which you have given to me. As there is to be no rapprochement to us, what I can say may not avail. I must now take my own course. I am sad; for what that course may have to be, I know not. I would have given my fortune and my life to have acquitted me honourably of the trust imposed on me. But such happiness may not alas! be mine. Senor” this he said very sternly “I trust that you will always remember that I tried all ways that I know of, of peace and honour, to fulfill my duty. Should I have to take means other to discharge my duty, even to the point of life and death, you will understand that I have no alternative.”

“Would you take life?” I said impulsively, half incredulous.

“I would not scruple regarding my own life; why should I, regarding that of another?” he said simply, then he went on:

“But oh! Senor, it is not the taking of life, my own or another’s, which I dread. It is that I may have to walk in devious ways, where honour is not; have I not already tasted of its bitterness! Understand me that this duty of guardianship of the trust is not of my choosing. It was set to me and mine by other and greater powers than ourselves, by the Vicegerent of God Himself; and what is ordained by him I shall do in all ways that are demanded of me.”

I was sorry for him, very sorry; but his words made a new fear. Hitherto I had been dealing with a gentleman, and there is much protection in this thought to any opponent. Now, however, he calmly announced that he would act without scruple. I was in future to dread, not fair fighting alone, but crooked ways and base acts. So I spoke out:

“Am I not then to look on you as a man of honour?” His face darkened dangerously; but all its haughty pride was obliterated by a look of despair and grief as he said sadly:

“Alas I know not. I am in the hands of God! He may deal mercifully with me, and allow me to pass to my grave not dishonoured; but for myself my path has been set in ways that may lead I know not whither.”

Somehow his words made me feel like a cad. I didn’t mind fighting a man fair; or indeed fighting him anyway, so long as we understood the matter from the first. But this was against the grain. The man had shown himself willing to give up everything he had, so as to fulfill his trust and be free; and for me now to have a part in forcing him into ways of dishonour seemed too bad. It didn’t seem altogether fair to me either. I had always tried to act honourably and mercifully, so that to have my own hand forced to acquiesce in the downfall of another man was in its way hard lines on me too. Truly, the ways of wealth are full of thorns; and when war and politics and intrigue are joined in the chase for gold, there is much suffering for all who are so unhappy as to be drawn within the spell. I was weakening in my resolve regarding the treasure, and would, I am sure, in a moment of impulse have made some rash proffer to the Spaniard; when once more there came back to me the purpose of the treasure, and what Marjory might think if I allowed it to go back where it might be used against her country. Whatever I might do, there was no hope of compromise on the part of Don Bernardino. His one purpose, blind and set, was to fulfill the obligation set by his forefather and to restore the treasure to Spain, by whom it might or might not be restored to the Pope. The intensity of my thought had concentrated my interests to such an extent that I did not consciously notice what was going on around me. Only in a sort of dim way did I know that the Spaniard’s eyes were roving round the room; seeking, in the blind agony of the despair which was upon his soul for a clue or opening somewhere.

All at once I became broad awake to the situation of things which had happened in those few seconds. He was gazing with eyes of amazement on the heap of metal caskets, dimmed with three centuries of sea water, which were piled on the side table amongst the scattered heaps of odds and ends of various kinds, made manifest by some trick of light. Then there came a light into his eyes as he raised his hand and pointed saying:

“So the treasure has been found!”

Saturday, 17 December 2022

Good Reading: “The Dream Peddler” by Frank Owen (in English)

 

1

It was long past midnight. At Giacomo's Restaurant two loiterers still lingered despite the fact that it was an imposition on the solitary waiter who impatiently remained to lock up. Giacomo prides himself on never turning out a guest no matter how unearthly the hour; but the hospitality of the restaurateur was not reflected in the bleary-eyed, drowsy appearance of the waiter. He considered the presence of the silent two a rank imposition, aggravated by the fact that he expected but scant tips, for usually men so ultra-taciturn were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to remember such mundane things.

The younger man was well dressed and rather good-looking, not the sort of "good-looking" which is pictured in collar "ads" and other atrocious posters, but there was an air of strength and energy about him. His face reflected a rather keen mentality, although it must be admitted, his expression at the moment was one of extreme disgust and boredom.

He motioned to the waiter.

"Another cup of coffee."

"Black coffee?" yawned the waiter a trifle irritably.

"The usual color," was the reply. "I have heard of pink teas but was unaware that coffee had become esthetic."

The waiter had already slouched off to the kitchen, so the sarcasm was wasted. But the young man failed to notice this breach of manners, for his eyes for the first time met those of the man who occupied the other table, and stayed. There was nothing distinctive about the elderly stranger. He was just a tiny bit of a man about sixty years of age, such as one meets a dozen times a day in New York City. He did not appear to be poor even though he was extremely thin, almost emaciated-looking, evidently a chronic dieter, prone to Fletcherism. Had it not been for the chance meeting of their eyes, the young man would never have been cognizant of the other's existence. Now, however, since their eyes had met, everything else on earth was forgotten. For perhaps a moment they sat and stared at one another. Then abruptly the stranger rose, and crossing the room, he seated himself at the table opposite the young man.

"Since you have invited me," said he, "I have come. After all, there is much to be commended in companionship. My name is Randall Crane."

"And mine," was the reply, "is Hugh Bannerton."

Hugh did not deny the invitation, despite the fact that he had not given one. Nor did he hesitate for a moment to tell his name.. He had felt the implied question, although Randall Crane had asked nothing. But what was stranger still, although as a rule lie was one of the most unapproachable of men, he did not resent the intrusion.

"You appear," remarked Randall Crane, "to be distinctly out of sorts, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, out of focus."

"I am disgusted with life," replied Hugh petulantly. "I'm sick of realities. I'm pining for adventure. By profession I am a detective. It is my lot in life to be continuously mixed up in other people's affairs, their mysteries and adventures. I work hours unraveling knots for them. But I never have any adventure of my own, I mean a personal adventure of which I am the central figure, an adventure which would appeal to ray yearning for romance. Most of the cases I handle are those of robbery and forgery. Each is almost a repetition of the preceding one. They lack individuality. At times my work bores me to death, I yearn for something new, to get away from the sordid realities of life."

"Did I not say," broke in Randall Crane, "that your vision was out of focus? I can not understand why you should bother with realities when dreams are so close at hand. A man should select a dream with as much care as lie selects a garment. It is of far more value. Yet it is surprizing how little thought we give to it. Psycho-analysts are beginning to attach a great scientific significance to dreams, thanks to the experiments of Freud, Ernest Jones, and a few other pioneers who do not fear the ridicule of the multitudes who can not at once grasp any new fact. Are you aware that seven-eighths of a man's mind is subconscious and until recently no one knew of its existence? The subconscious mind is really a great vault in which every past record of your life is filed; no picture that ever has or ever will pass before your eyes is last entirely. You may forget it in your conscious mind, but still it is within you, buried in your great subconscious filing system. As a rule your mind enters this vault only when you are asleep, or in other words, dreaming, despite the fact that usually when you awake you immediately forget your dreams. In the face of such unescapable facts, a person must indeed be brave who contends that dreams are utterly worthless. Surely if seven-eighths of one's consciousness is given over to dreams, they must be far more worthwhile than the one-eighth reality."

All this time Hugh's eyes had never once left those of Randall Crane. The waiter, unnoticed, had brought the coffee, but Hugh could not for the life of him have told whether it was black or pink. In fact, he was totally unaware of its existence.

Randall Crane paused for a moment and leaned toward him. His eyes burned with a fire that seemed to penetrate to Hugh's very soul. Of course it was a ridiculous impression and yet, at the time, to Hugh it seemed sane enough.

"Supposing," said Crane tensely, "there were dreams for sale, and you could do your own choosing, what would you buy? Would you crave diamonds and pearls, rubies and sapphires, gold, silver and carved jade—things as valueless in themselves as the stones on which we tread heedlessly every day?"

"No," was the fervent reply, "I would buy adventure, a romance such as poets sing about but which is in truth as intangible as vapor."

"You are wrong," cried Randall Crane. "Absolutely wrong! Romance is within your grasp if you but hold out your hand."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I am a peddler of dreams. Among my wares are dreams such as even you might treasure. If you would find romance, come with me."

To the delight of the lone waiter, now fully awake at last, Hugh rose to his feet. Randall Crane paid the bill but Hugh was not even aware that he did so. His boredom had slipped from him like a cloak, his ennui was forgotten. He did not for a single moment believe Crane, and yet there was something about his absorbed expression which left the slightest, thread of hope. Often barest possibilities are far more attractive in appearance than the most vivid actualities.

The rooms of Randall Crane were just around the comer in one of a row of old-fashioned red-brick buildings with white stoops. They totally lacked personality. In fact they were just replicas of all other boarding house rooms. One look at the drab furniture was sufficient to convince Hugh that Randall Crane rented the rooms as they were and did not own a single stick in them.

Randall Crane noticed Hugh's expression.

"When one lives in dreams," he explained, "one cares very little for material things. The only thing I desire in my room is quietude to sleep." As he spoke he lighted a small pipe which lay on a table in the center of the room, and motioning Hugh toward an old couch in the comer, he continued, "Smoke this, and as you drift off into a land of delightful dreams you will forget your uninviting environment."

Hugh took the pipe, and throwing himself on the couch, he uttered a sigh of contentment. Here was an adventure sufficiently interesting to appeal. Perhaps he was unwise to accede so readily to Randall Crane's suggestion, but he did not care. Usually he was the most careful of men. Although still young, he had been an active detective for almost ten years. So ardently had he pursued his studies, he discovered the defect in everything long before he acknowledged its merit. But now all caution was thrown to the winds. For once he had decided to let himself go adventuring. As he drew on the pipe he tried to guess what it contained. It was sweet-scented as though made of flowers. And then abruptly he looked into Crane's eyes, which seemed oddly bright in the semi-darkness of the room, and instantly all reflections and problems vanished.

"You have just crossed the silent stream where the slumber shadows go," said Crane softly. "Care, worry and the material things of life are forgotten, for you are in the 'Hills of Dream' and it is spring. The flowers are blooming everywhere in the gorgeous sunlight. From the forest come pungent scents of birch and pine and fir. The forest, trails, cool and shadowy, are very attractive to you. Heeding their call you enter the woods."

Randall Crane's voice seemed to grow farther and farther away as Hugh slipped softly into sleep. And now he had a dream, and the dream was like a continuation of the voice of Randall Crane, for he was in a forest from which came "pungent scents of birch and pine and fir" and it was spring. He walked through the dim-lit paths singing a nonsense song which he had learned as a child:

 

"The cow is in the bathtub.

The cat is in. the lake,

Baby's in the garbage pail—

What difference does it make?"

 

He was as carefree as a lad. The youth and joy of spring possessed him. He wanted somebody to talk to, somebody to laugh with him, and then abruptly he came to the fringe of the woods to behold a tiny white road winding off into the hills like a strip of silver.

"There must be romance hidden somewhere on that road," he cried.

As he spoke he noticed a little lop-eared white bull-terrier sitting in the center of the road, with one ear sticking up and one hanging down in the most droll little way imaginable. At Hugh's approach the dog gave a series of yelps which, without stretching the imagination too much, certainly resembled a series of chuckles.

"Good afternoon," said Hugh, bowing in mock gravity. "You seem to be having a doggone good time. I prithee, will you tell me your name?"

"Grr, Grr," barked the dog.

"Rather an odd name," chuckled Hugh. "Foreign, isn't it? Russian, I should imagine, with a dash of Chinese. . . Well Mr. Grr Grr, something tells me that if I followed you, you would lead me to a charming adventure. A dignitary with such a distinctive name as yours must have had a very adventurous career. Lead on, Mr. Grr Grr, and I will follow. Throw in a dash of romance to give the adventure piquancy."

Even as Hugh spoke, the little dog turned and trotted down the road. He seemed as pleased with himself as Punch, oi', if you prefer, Judy. Soon he rounded a bend in the road, and Hugh, whistling a merry tune, followed after him. And now he noticed that they had arrived at a tiny cottage from the chimney of which issued a thin, lazy haze of smoke. Mechanically Hugh repeated to himself the verse of a poem which he had read somewhere and which had remained hidden away in his memory to recur to him now:

 

"I knew by the way the smoke gracefully curled

Above the green elms that a cottage was near.

And I knew that if peace could be found in this world,

A heart that was humble might look for it here."

 

He stopped abruptly in his quoting as he noticed the figure of a girl standing by the entrance gate to the garden, and what was most odd about it was that she was speaking to him as though she had known him all her life.

"You have been long in coming," die said softly. "I have waited for you many weeks. But come, it is lunchtime and I will serve tea for two, with toast, marmalade and waffles."

As she spoke, the girl turned and entered the cottage. Much interested, Hugh followed after her.

She led him into a decidedly attractive room in the house. It was furnished in English walnut, and the paneled walls were of the same wood. The carpet also was in harmony and, save for a single tea-rose in a slender glass vase in the center of the table, there was no other bit of color in the room.

When the girl noticed Hugh looking curiously at the table, she smiled.

"It is in the style of William and Mary," she told him roguishly, "but don't ask me what William and don't ask me what Mary. Some of my friends do not like the idea of furnishing a room in a single tone. They say, although this is a dining room, it looks like a 'brown study.' Tell me, do you think there is sufficient color in the room?"

"Since yon are here," he said impulsively, "any additional color would be wasted."

She blushed slightly but did not seem ill-pleased.

"Come, let us drink our tea."

As she spoke, she seated herself at the table, and taking a teapot as fragile as a wild-flower, she poured the jade-colored tea into two iridescent cups.

"Are you aware," she asked, that tea never is as palatable when sipped from a cup that is not in harmony with its own alluring shade? For instance, could you enjoy tea out of a pink or yellow cup?"

"Immensely," he declared, "if you served it to me."

"I am serious," she pouted.

"How can one be serious," he asked, "when one is so supremely happy?"

"One should always be at least dignified when drinking tea," she said. "Of all beverages it is by far the most cultured and refined. Can you name another single drink which holds so lofty a position? The Japanese realize that drinking tea is a fine art. and they try to keep it so. In the best tea-houses of 'The Land of Cherry Blossoms' no word is ever spoken, no discordant note is ever heard. There philosophers for ages have worked out lofty problems. Hence they have made Teaism a science. At first tea was used as a medicine to cure bodily ills, now It has become an elixir to cure moral ills."

Hugh looked at her in awe. Here was a girl as beautiful as the sun glimmering through the early mists of morning, yet she was talking as sagely as though she had lived in the marts of Eastern Asia for a hundred years.

He held out his cup. "A little more," he said, "not because I adore tea but for the sheer joy of watching you pour it, knowing that you are doing it for me." And then he added impulsively, "Do tell me more about tea. From now on I shall devote my life to it. I'll make Teaism my religion and listen to you always."

For a moment die seemed lost in thought. Then die said, "There is no more definite way of expressing a delightful compliment than to ask a friend to take tea with you. Over the teacups, souls seem very close together, friendship at that moment is more intimate than at any other point. It is the moment for the exchange of confidences. It is the time when peace steals into one's soul. Even now are you not conscious of a strange attraction that is drawing us together?"

"Yes," said Hugh softly.

She leaned toward him and her voice, almost inaudible, was like a caress. "It is the Spirit of the Tea," she murmured.

And so they sat and talked as though they had known each other always.

"Do you know," said she, "for ever so long I have made tea for two each day and yet I have always had to drink it alone."

"You were then expecting me?" said Hugh, greatly interested.

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly. "Even though you were long in coming, I knew that you would come. But this is our first meeting, so you must not stay too long. Good-bye for a while, but I shall wait patiently until you come back to me."

As she spoke, everything seemed to grow hazy and very far away. The next moment, Hugh awoke. He still lay upon the couch in the little atrociously furnished room, and the old Dream Peddler was bending over him.

"Come," he cried, "it is morning, and I have fried a steak for breakfast."

"But I have just had marmalade and tea," murmured Hugh.

It was very hard for him to come back to the material things of life from the dream-world in which he had been roaming.

"That," chuckled Randall Crane, "must have been a dream or two ago. If the stuff that dreams are made of is finer than mist, then without a doubt, dream-food doesn't contain many calories. So I suggest that you eat again. Dreams are ample food for the soul, but the stomach is a far more vulgar fellow."

When they had finished breakfast, Hugh said, "Now with your permission I should like to buy another dream."

"Another dream?" asked Randall Crane with surprized inflection.

"I mean the same dream," Hugh hastened to explain. And then, realizing that he had not paid for it, he took out his wallet.

But Randall Crane waved him aside. "Put your money away," he said. "You can't pay for dreams with material things. Some day I will tell you the price of a dream,"

"When you do," declared Hugh, "I shall be delighted to pay whatever you ask."

"Evidently you liked your dream," drawled Crane.

"Liked it!" cried Hugh. "Why, just the remembrance of it is worth living for. Did I not prove my utter satisfaction by wishing to have it over again at once?"

Randall Crane shook his head. "I do not deal in day-dreams," he said slowly. "One can't have a beautiful dream until one's day's work is done. Perhaps I am assuming when I say you can not spare the golden hours of sunlight for day-dreaming. Perhaps you belong to the rich, idle, useless class, although I seriously doubt it, the men who just knock about town doing nothing, thinking nothing, producing nothing."

"Whether I belong to that class depends on one's point of view," declared Hugh. "Usually the things I produce are stolen bonds, jewels or money. I am a detective. I am seldom idle, sometimes useless, but never rich. In the last few years I have solved some intricate problems, but never has one proven such an enigma as this. I can hardly credit the happenings of the last dozen hours."

"Do they seem like a dream?" chuckled Randall Crane.

"I'd say a miracle," replied Hugh fervently.

The horn's of that day to Hugh seemed leaden. The minutes dragged past as though they were feeble with age. He went to his office, but all he could think of was the dream girl. She was a delicious mystery. The day seemed endless. He made no effort to work. He recalled Mason's story of The Clock, wherein is related how a man lived fourteen minutes in a single second. Each second now seemed just that long to him. He was in love with a girl whom he had met in a dream. Now only sleep mattered. His waking hours were useless.

 

2

Promptly at 6 o'clock Hugh was in the rooms of the Dream Peddler. "Bring on your dreams," he cried. He made no effort to hide his jubilant spirits.

"But we must eat first," said Randall Crane prosaically.

"I've had my supper," replied Hugh irritably. "Can't you eat while I sleep?"

"Since I am but a peddler," drawled Randall Crane, "it would not be polite of me to insist." As he spoke he lighted a pipe.

In silence Hugh stretched himself out upon the couch and looked steadily into his eyes.

"You are on a hilltop," said Randall Crane softly. "But you are not alone. She is with you. Together you can go on with the dream."

As the Dream Peddler's voice faded off into nothing, Hugh realized that he was standing on a hilltop, but more glorious still, she was there also. She sat on a rock and smiled up into his face.

"Are you looking for someone?" she asked demurely.

"I was," he chuckled as he threw himself on the ground beside her, "but I am not now."

"You mean you grew tired of looking?"

"You are partly right," he said.

"I grew tired, went to sleep and then I found her."

"Well, you have come at a most opportune moment," she cried gayly, "for it is nearly noon and I have brought a lunch with me fit for the gods."

"And prepared by a goddess," he finished.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It depends on one's point of view," she murmured roguishly. "The hamper was packed by Corinne, our colored cook who is so black she claims she never has to wash because her face never soils. She would, I fear, look rather out of place on high Olympus, besides being a terrible weight for Atlas to carry, for she weighs three hundred pounds."

Hugh smiled. "Atlas didn't hold up Olympus," he corrected, "he held up the world."

"Worse than Jesse James," she broke in.

"Don't change the subject in order that you need not admit your error," he said. "You* must acknowledge that if Atlas held up the world it would make very little difference to him in what particular locality Corinne wished to be."

She pouted deliciously.

Thus the meal progressed. Gradually conversation drifted into more serious channels, and they discussed literature, especially poetry.

"My favorite poem," she said, "is by Bourdillon:

 

"Wide must the poet wander

To garnish his golden cells.

For in yesterday and in yonder

The secret of poesy dwells.

 

"It is where the rainbow resteth,

And the Gates of the Sunset be,

And the star in the still pool nesteth.

And the moon-road lies on the sea."

 

He rose to his feet. "And mine also is about a road," he said tensely. "It is by Marie Van Vorst:

 

"A town road and a down road.

And the King's road broad and free—

There's but one road in all the world.

The way that leads to thee."

 

As he uttered the last word, he seized her in his arms.

"You are mine!" he cried softly, "all mine!"

But even as he drew her unresisting to him, everything began to grow blurred and hazy. The next moment he opened his eyes. Randall Crane was bending over him.

"Breakfast," he said laconically.

"Hang it!" muttered Hugh irritably. "You've awakened me at the most beautiful moment of my dream. Serves me right for dealing with a peddler." In spite of everything, he tried to keep in good spirits, but his effort at humor was rather half-hearted.

"I am sorry I had to disturb you," said Crane whimsically, "but I'm going away for a few days, out to the country to show a few of my samples to a prospective customer."

At Randall Crane's words, Hugh's heart turned to ice. That meant he wouldn't be able to see the Dream-Girl for several days. He was very miserable. How was he to live? And then an even greater worry gripped him. Suppose Randall Crane were to die. What, would happen then? He would lose his Dream-Girl forever. He wondered how old Crane really was.

"I say," he said finally, "can't I go out to the country with you?"

"To help carry my samples?" asked Randall Crane.

"No, to see that you do not run any unnecessary risks," explained Hugh. "Don't you know I'm terribly worried for fear something may happen to you?"

"Rubbish," laughed Crane. "But I'll take you with me. It'll do your nerves good."

An hour later they were on a train speeding out into the country and at noon they arrived at their destination—Avondale.

As they alighted from the train they were greeted by a little old colored gentleman who was so aged that he might easily have once been a schoolmate of Diogenes. Despite the fact that the day was somewhat warm, he had a great green scarf around his neck as though it were midwinter. This, with his vivid brown suit and orange waistcoat, gave him a rather grand and glorious appearance. But his horse, which apparently was held up by the shafts of the rickety carriage, presented a strong contrast to him. If the little colored gentleman had been a schoolmate of Diogenes, then without a doubt the horse had once been attached to the chariot of the mighty Cæsar—a very apropos remark, for the little colored hackman went by the illustrious name of John Cæsar. Evidently the horse had always been owned by the same family.

"Hello, Mistuh Crane," said John Cæsar. "Yassuh, it sure is a fine day. Yassuh. Climb in. Yassuh. The Oaks? Yassuh. Feels like summer. Yassuh." Thus the little old colored fellow kept up a train of conversation which could easily have run from New York to Philadelphia.

As Hugh and Randall Crane climbed into the carriage, John Cæsar tried to coax his horse to start. "Giddap there, you lazy, good-fur-nothin' bag o' bones. Yassuh, you sure am a bag of bones. Yassuh, lazy bones. Yassuh, you sure am some horse. Yassuh."

Eventually the horse shook off its lethargy and sauntered down the country road. The gait at which he went would have been very irritating to Hugh if he had not been so extremely interested in the pompous way in which John Caesar sat upon the driver's seat.

"Surely," he chuckled, "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed more splendidly."

At last the horse stopped and Randall Crane said, "Well, here we are, and once more that trusty charger has completed a trip without dying en route."

Hugh climbed out of the rickety carriage. As he did so he noticed the figure of a girl standing by the entrance gate to the garden, and what was most odd was that she was speaking to him as though she had known him all her life.

"You have been long in coming," she said softly. "I have been waiting for you. But come, it is lunchtime and I will serve tea for three, with toast, marmalade and waffles."

As Hugh heard her speak, he rushed forward and seized her in his arms. He drew her unresisting to him. "You are mine, all mine," he cried tensely. And thus his dream came true.

 

3

Late that afternoon Hugh said to Randall Crane, "I have two questions to ask you. How did you ever contrive to be such a perfect peddler of dreams?"

Randall Crane smiled slightly. "I have been expecting that question," he said slowly. "Without a doubt you think me somewhat of a conjuror, and yet I assure you that there is nothing in the slightest degree supernatural in what T have done. Psychoanalysts at last have begun to realize the importance of dreams. Many doctors of medicine are devoting half their time to the diagnosis of illness through the interpretation of dreams. I have taken the experiment a step farther. Realizing the importance of dreams and the dream function, I have endeavored to control them. Now I knew to begin with that dreams are ofttimes the product of suggestion. I took this as a starting point and annexed it to a fact which is also quite well-known by psychologists. It is quite easy to implant into a person's mind, either the conscious or subconscious, a suggestion which the subject is desirous of absorbing. The third fact which I made use of was that when the will of the suggester is stronger than that of the subject, the problem of implanting the desired dream is almost trifling. When I met you, you were bored to death, in the grip of melancholia. Therefore you were an excellent subject for experiment. The only rift in the lute was this: if you had never met my daughter by chance as you walked through Washington Square, I knew I should fail in my attempt. Understand, I merely mean that I had to assume that you two had passed each other. If you had not seen her face once at least, I knew that I could not have infused her presence into your dreams. Some day what I have done will be as simple as hypnotism is at present. Hypnotism is the science of controlling a person's will. You can appreciate that the control of dreams is not a much greater step forward.

"The pipe which you smoked contained nothing but scented tobacco. It had no power to provoke even the faintest glimmer of a dream. I used it because by so doing I could more readily and quickly get control over your consciousness. Having once gotten control of your conscious mind, the task of gaining control of your subconscious mind was simplified greatly.' You believed that the pipe contained the stuff that dreams are made of, and when you had once absorbed the suggestion, auto-suggestion helped me materially to implant the ensuing dreams. Physicians are well aware of the phenomenon which I have mentioned. Were a doctor to suggest to a patient that he were dying, even though the statement were groundless, the chances are ten to one the patient would die. A case in point was reported in the newspapers recently. A man in England decided to commit suicide. He locked himself in a small room, sealed up all the cracks in the doors with newspapers and then turned on the gas-jets. Unknown to him the gas in the house had been turned off that day to permit the company to fix the mains in the street. But he imagined that the gas was pouring into the room and so he died from heart-failure, one of the most peculiar cases of suicide ever recorded. . .

"At first it had been my intention to permit you to believe that the girl existed in your dream only. I had no idea of ever making known her actual existence. This subsequent development was the natural result of your attitude toward the dream. Psychoanalysts now know that a man dreams constantly when he is sleeping, but that due to the careful guarding of the Gateway to the Unconscious by what Freud has termed the 'censor' we seldom remember our dreams. There are many proofs that this is so, as for instance when one is awakened suddenly in the middle of the night, it often happens that one is conscious of a nameless fear as if an unknown presence or horror is in the room. At the same time one doesn't remember having dreamed a thing. The dream is forgotten, but the fear gets by the 'censor.' I am not going to bore you with unnecessary detail, but you can verify my assertions very easily by referring to Fielding, Barbara Low, Tridon, or any of the writers who have written books on this subject. However, even though one does not always remember a dream, it is possible by continued concentration to recall the incidents which the 'censor' guards so carefully. Of course in many persons the 'censor' is not so alert, and these people dream all the time. There are two extremes of this class of people—the genius and the maniac. The difference between the two is that the first controls his dreams, while the second is controlled by his dream. . . But I am wandering away from my subject. Always when speaking of psycho-analysis I say too much, and I fear in a great many instances I make of myself a dreadful bore. But I know you will pardon my digressing, especially since I am returning at once to my real subject.

"When I found that you remembered the dream in every detail and that your whole outlook on life had changed, I thought what a pity it would be not to let you meet the real girl of your dreams. So I did, and you know the result."

Randall Crane paused for a moment, then he said, "And now I am ready for your other question."

"I want to know how much I owe you," said Hugh whimsically. "Even yet you have not told me the price of my dreams."

It was a while before Randall Crane spoke, then he said fervently. "Just make my little girl happy. That will be pay enough."

Friday, 16 December 2022

Friday's Sung Word: "Provei" by Noel Rosa and Vadico (in Portuguese)

Provei
Do amor todo amargor que ele tem
Então jurei
Nunca mais amar ninguém
Porém, eu agora encontrei alguém
Que me compreende
E que me quer bem

Quem fala mal do amor
Não sabe a vida gozar
Quem maldiz a própria dor
Tem amor mas não sabe amar

Nunca se deve jurar
Não mais amar a ninguém
Ninguém pode evitar
De se apaixonar por alguém

 

 
 You can listen "Provei" sung by Noel Rosa and Marília Baptista with Benedito Lacerda and his Regional here.