Fancies and Goodnights, стр. 89
«Please relax,» said the psychiatrist. «There is no need to demonstrate.»
«I'm sorry,» said the young man. «I picked up the habit from Maisie.»
«Sit down,» said the psychiatrist, «and continue.»
«Last night,» said the young man despairingly, «was the thirty-eighth night»
«Then,» said the psychiatrist, «you must have got down to this level, for this office is on the mezzanine floor.»
«I was,» cried the young man. «And I was outside this very window, descending at terrific speed. I looked in. Doctor, I saw you! As clearly as I see you now!»
«Mr. Rotifer,» replied the psychiatrist with a modest smile, «I very frequently figure in my patients' dreams.»
«But I wasn't your patient then,» said the young man. «I didn't even know you existed. I didn't know till this morning, when I came to see who occupied this office. Oh, Doctor, I was so relieved to find you were not a theatrical agent!»
«And why were you relieved?» asked the specialist blandly.
«Because you were not alone. In my dream, I mean. A young woman was with you. A young woman with beautiful golden hair. And she was sitting on your knee, Doctor, and her arms were around your neck. I felt certain it was another theatrical agency. And then I thought, that is very beautiful golden hair. It is like my Maisie's hair. At that moment you both looked toward the window. It was she! Maisie! My own Maisie!»
The psychiatrist laughed very heartily. «My dear sir,» said he, «you may set your mind entirely at rest»
«All the same,» said the young man, «this morning, in the office, I have been a prey to an unbearable curiosity, an almost irresistible urge to jump, just to see what I should see.»
«You would have had the mortification,» said the psychiatrist, «of seeing that there were no grounds whatever for your rash act. Your fiancee is not a patient of mine; therefore she could not have had one of those harmless little transferences, as we call them, which have been known to lead to ardent behaviour on the part of the subject. Besides, our profession has its ethics, and nothing ever happens in the office. No, my dear sir, what you have described to me is a relatively simple condition, a recurrent dream, a little neurotic compulsion — nothing that cannot be cured in time. If you can visit me three or four times a week, I am confident that a very few years will show a decided improvement»
«But Doctor,» cried the young man in despair, «I am due to hit the ground at any moment!»
«But only in a dream,» said the psychiatrist reassuringly. «Be sure to remember it clearly, and note particularly if you bounce. Meanwhile, return to your office, carry on with your work, and worry as little as possible about it»
«I will try to do so,» said the young man. «But really you are astonishingly like yourself as I saw you in my dream, even to that little pearl tie-pin.»
«That,» said the psychiatrist, as he bowed him smilingly out, «was a gift from a very well-known lady, who was always falling in her dreams.» So saying, he closed the door behind his visitor, who departed shaking his head in obstinate melancholy. The psychiatrist then seated himself at his desk and placed the tips of his fingers together, as psychiatrists always do while they are pondering over how much a new patient may be good for.
His meditation was interrupted by his secretary, who thrust her head in at the door. «Miss Mimling to see you,» she said. «Her appointment is at two-thirty.»
«Show her in,» said the psychiatrist, and rose to greet the new entrant, who proved to be a young woman with the appearance of a rather wild mouse, upon whose head someone has let fall a liberal splash of peroxide. She was in a very agitated state. «Oh, Doctor,» she said, «I just had to telephone you, for when I saw your name in the book, of course I knew it was you. I saw your name on the door. In my dream, Doctor. In my dream.»
«Let us talk it over very quietly,» said the healer of souls, trying to manoeuvre her into the deep armchair. She was fidgety, however, and perched herself upon the corner of his desk. «I don't know if you think there is anything in dreams,» she said. «But this was such an extraordinary one.»
«I dreamed I came up to your door, and there was your name on it, just as it is out there. That's how it was I came to look you up in the telephone book, and there it was again. So I felt I just had to come and see you».
«Well, I dreamed I came into your office, and I was sitting here on the desk, just like this, talking to you, and all of a sudden — of course I know it was only a dream — I felt a feeling … well, really I hardly know how to tell you. It seemed to me as if you were my father, my big brother, and a boy I once knew called Herman Myers, all rolled into one. I don't know how I could feel like that, even in a dream, for I am engaged to a young man I love with all my conscious mind, and I thought with my unconscious, too. Oh, it's awful of me!»
«My dear young lady,» purred the psychiatrist, «this is nothing more or less than the phenomenon of transference. It is something which can happen to anybody, and usually it does.»
«Yes,» said she, «but it made me transfer myself to your knee, like this, and put my arms around your neck, like this.»
«Now! now!» murmured the psychiatrist gently, «I'm afraid you are acting out a neurotic impulse.»
«I always act things out,» she said. «They say it makes me the life and soul of a party. But, Doctor, then I happened to look out of the window, like this, and . . . Wow! There he is! There he was! It was Charlie! Oh, what a terrible look he gave us as he went by!»
MARY
There was in those days — I hope it is there still — a village called Ufferleigh, lying all among the hills and downs of North Hampshire. In every cottage garden there was a giant apple tree, and when these trees were hung red with fruit, and the newly lifted potatoes lay gleaming between bean-row and cabbage-patch, a young man walked into the village who had never been there before.
He stopped in the lane just under Mrs. Hedges's gate, and looked up into her garden. Rosie, who was picking the beans, heard his tentative cough, and turned and leaned over the hedge to hear what he wanted. «I was wondering,» said he «if there was anybody in the village who had a lodging to let»
He looked at Rosie, whose cheeks were redder than the apples, and whose hair was the softest yellow imaginable. «I was wondering,» said he in amendment, «if you had.»
Rosie looked back at him. He wore a blue jersey such as seafaring men wear, but he seemed hardly like a seafaring man. His face was brown and plain and pleasant, and his hair was black. He was shabby and he was shy, but there was something about him that made it very certain he was not just a tramp. «I'll ask,» said Rosie.
With that she ran for her mother, and Mrs. Hedges came out to interview the young man. «I've got to be near Andover for a week,» said he, «but somehow I didn't fancy staying right in the town.»
«There's a bed,» said Mrs. Hedges. «If you don't mind having your meals with us —»
«Why, surely, ma'am,» said he. «There's nothing I'd like better.»
Everything was speedily arranged; Rosie picked another handful of beans, and in an hour he was seated with them at supper. He told them his name was Fred Baker, but, apart from that, he was so polite that he could hardly speak, and in the end Mrs. Hedges had to ask him outright what his business was. «Why, ma'am,» said he, looking her straight in the face, «I've done one thing and another ever since I was so high, but I heard an old proverb once, how to get on in the world. 'Feed 'em or amuse 'em,' it said. So that's what I do, ma'am. I travel with a pig.»