Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 July 1893 — A Man in a Dream. [ARTICLE]

A Man in a Dream.

BY CHARLES W. HOOKE.

In an eddy of the great stream which #bbs and flows along Broadway I myself one afternoon unexpectedly face to face with my very good friend, Dr. Adolph Mayer. As we stood there talking, suddenly the doctor stretched forth his hand and drew one whom he knew out of the river of strangers. Thus I became acquainted with Mr. Clarence Hall, whom, presently, the current bore away again. Dr. Mayer had seized rather eagerly, I thought, the opportunity for this introduction, and so I was not surprised that he should ask me. when Hall had gone, what had been my impression of his friend. “He is a handsome fellow,’’ said I, “and looks like an athlete.” “True; but as to his manner ?” “He seemed preoccupied. I thought at first that he might be deaf, because I noticed that you pronounced the introductory form with unusual distinctness.” ; “His hearing is all right.” “Yes, I soon perceived that the trou- j ble was in his faculty of directing his j attention. He gave me the idea of a j man in a dream.” “You have hit it exactly,” exclaimed Dr. Mayer, “that's just what he is.” I could hardly take the doctor's statement literally. Somnambulism on Broadway at 4 o'clock in the afternoon would be too great a wonder. “Dp you mean that he is in love? ” I asked. “He is in love,” was the reply, “but that is only a part of the dream.* It was not even the beginning of it.” “I don’t understand.'’ “Of course you don't; but come, you shall hear the whole story. There’s* no J)bjecrfon to my telling it* to you. This case is the most remarkable’ in my experience, and the story will be worth your time.” M e walked to the doctor's office, which was near by, and there I stretched myself in his great “operating chair,” and listened at my ease. “Hall was poor at 21, when he came out of college,” Dr. Mayer began. “He was alone in the world. The best offer which he received—and it wasn’t a good one by any means—brought him to this city. He had an artistic nature,, and, as I believe, great literary ability; but, bless you, he couldn’t have made car fare out of it. So he became a bank clerk.

“He had a great craving for wealth; not for the luxuries it would bring, but for the opportunities. Studious leisure was what he wanted. He was net the man to write poetry in a garret, and he knew it. There was no disguising the fact that dull, hard labor made him wretched, and he was one of those who can no more produce that good thing of which the seed is in them without happiness, than a tree can bear its fruit without sunshine. During his two years’ servitude in the bank he did not once put pen to paper except in the routine of his daily toil. “But such an imagination as his would find an expression somehow. It his case the creative power wrought day dreams. We all indulge ourselves in these delusions more or less. He n*ould be a poor creature who could not tell himself a better story than the pointless, threadbare, barren tale of life. When too much weariness denies us sleep we gain at least a counterfeit of peace by painting restful scenes; we ara the stronger, I dare say, for fancied heroisms. This is the natural remedy for the nausea of existence, and it is good, no doubt, in small doses. But Clarence Hall carried the practice to dangerous excess. He established a regular dual consciousness. He was jostled by the crowd in an L train and at the same time he floated on the Bay of Naples; he worked in the bank at $lO a week and spent his entire revenues with lavish hand in the bright world of fancy. “I did not know him then, but he has told me that he could banish reality from every place but one, and that was his little room on the East Side. There he led but one life, and that was torture. His most wretched moment of the day was that in which consciousness returned to him after sleep. It was then that the dull walls stared at him and the tawdry furniture mocked him and the hard truth was like a clenched fist shaken in his fac*. “Elsewhere, however, he was not unhappy. His dreams at last had taken definite form; they had become unified into something like a Chinese drama, which requires a month for its performance. He became rich in the first soene, and always in the same way by inheritance from a relative of whom he had never heard. Then came a luxury at home, then travel and finally love. He would ‘keep his place, in this dream as one does in a book, and if driven into reality fora few minutes he would then pick up the thread of dreamland’s story, where he had laid it down. “It was a great grief to him that he could not dream in his room. He got a horror of the place, and at last he came to believe that another, though equally meager in its furnishipgs, might not have the same baleful effect upon him. He boarded with a widow, Mrs. Rogers, agon 3 woman who worked bard to support two or throe children. She regarded Hall aa a model boarder, and

wept copiously when he announced his intention of going away. She offered to reduce her charges, to give him better furniture; to do anything in reason. Her terms were much more reasonable than he could possibly find elsewhere and he - know it, but superstition had taken hold of him and he could not stay. That room had become to him a prison, of which ‘Reality’ was the warden.” Dr. Mayer paused to light a fresh cigar. “So that’s his case,” said I. “He is practically insane, I suppose. Delusions of grandeur, and paresis just beginning to get its grip on him. Heavens, but it's a pity! He is certainly one of the handsomest men I ever saw, and a gentleman, as one may see at a glance. Strange how his delusion hasstamped itself upon him. He has dreamed of wealth and gained the bearing of a young Croesus.” “Well, as to that,” said the doctor, “he really is rich.” “Then his dream came true? at least as to the money?” “Yes, and the event was surprisingly like the dream. Just us he was ready to move away from Mrs. Rogers’ house his fortunes changed. It was an inheritance, and it ran up into the millions. The legal business was done through Webster A Hathaway. I knew Webster well. “The demeanor of Hall was such that

the lawyers doubted his sanity. In the first place he seemed to know all about it without being told. Webster broke the news to him, and Clarence did not move a muscle. Finally he said he had been expecting it for a long time. Now, Webster had every reason to .believe that Clarence had never before heard of Leonard Hall, the Brazilian merchant, whose fortune had been so strangely laid at hie feet. Oh, yes, Clarence had known all about it; he had, indeed, already selected bachelor apartments suited to his ample means; he had gone the day before to assure himself that they were still vacant. Webster took occasion to verify this statement the next day. There was no doubt about it. Clarence had called at the Croisic and had examined a suite. He had carried his dreams so far nto reality.

“At this stage of the proceedings I was asked to look the young man over. I made his acquaintance and examined him at leisure. Well, he was insane, but I could not bring myself to say so. My ] report to Webster was such that Hall got his money. “I should have said it would have ■ cured him,” said I. “Knowing that he is rich, why should he dream?" “It would have cured him, as vou say,” remarked Dr. Mayer. “The trouble is that he doesn't know it.” “Doesn't know that he is rich?” “No, he thinks that it is all a dream. He has no notion that the luxuries by which he is surrounded are realities.” “But does he not believe you when you tell him so?” “Unfortunately, he doesn't believe that lam a reality. He thinks that lam a creature of the imagination. Doubtless he has the same thought of you.” “But other people must be continually contradicting his delusion.” “No; for they are not aware of it. ! Until I told you. uo mortal but myself suspected it. You noted his dreamy I air, but it would never have led you to ' guess the truth. Y T ou see he acts like a sane man; his life is incredibly well- i ordered. lie has a great advantage in his two years’ preparation for the joys 1 and responsibilities of wealth. His

dream developed in his mind till the i follies were eradicated from it. They i could not fasten them-elves upon him, ) for they were only the shadows of follies ! cast upon the golden dust of dreamland. ! He passed on into a clearer light. I tell you, Maynard, he‘s a model young ” j “ Lunatic.” I hastily supplied the word. “ Can nothing be done for him ?” | “ I don’t know. Time may do something, but whether good or evil, I’ll be hanged if I know. Talking won’t help him. I’ve laid hin own ease before him with bare, scientific accuracy, and again with poetical trimming. But what’s the use, when he believes me to be a creature of his own brain?” “Why trouble hint at all? Is he not happv?” “No. Maynard, ho Isn’t. ITe believes himself to be insane, but that does not grieve him. On the contrary, he is glad of it. His chief trouble is the fear that he will recover his reason, and find himself once more a clerk.”

“ What is your theovy? ” “ It is simply a habit of thought hardened into a delusion. Thought is nothing but a phenomenon accompanying certain ohemical and physical changes. Something starts it in a certain direction, and it tends to keep on. Take a simple natural process no an illustration: Rock candy is made by crystallizing sugar that has been dissolved in water. The crystals will be very small if you let them alone; but put a piece of string into the water, giving the process something to start with, and Vlg, clear crystals result. Some string of association was dropped into his mind when those little dreams began to form, and, behold, they took greater size, and new and beautiful shapes.” “And tho cure?” “If I Could find just what that stripg was I might pull it out and start the process going in the other way; but ” He paused and shook his head. “You don’t believe that you can find it?” said I. “ Perhaps I may, but shall I dare to use the knowledge? He might go stark mad. He would unquestionably feel u tendency to suicide. I don’t know just what w,ill come of it. At present lam studying him, and doing nothing elve in his case.” “You spoke of his being in love.” “Yes; there was a woman in his dreams, and it seems that he has found her. She lives in New Haven. I have met her, and she is a most beautiful and charming girl. Clarence, of course, has no thought that she really exists. He thinks that his fancy has created her.” “Does she know of his condition?” “She does not,” replied the doctor. “It is one of the gravest problems of the case. Should I tell her?” “In honor he should do so. You say he knows that he is crazy, and surely he is a gentleman." “But, my dear fellow, how can hefCel a moral obligation of that sort regarding a creature of his brain? It has never occurred to him that she ndbded to be informed. She is one of the spectres in the ghostly country he inhabits. Why should he talk to her as if she was a visitor from the real world?” “This is too much for me,” said I. “But then, why should I expect to understand at once a case that you have been studying for months?” “Almost a year,” said Dr. Mayer. “But what do you think of it?” I gave it up, as the phrase goes. I eould form no opinion as to the probable result. “Keep me informed of every phase of the case,” said I, in parting wi«h the doctor. “I am deeply interested. Some weeks passed before I again met

J Dr. Mayer. When we met my first question touched upon Hall. “Is there anything new la the case?” I asked. “Everything is new,” he replied. Then he put on the cloak of his professional manner which disguises sentiment. I perceived at once that something unusual had happened to Hall, and that my friend had been deeply affected by it. “Death,” said I to myself, “and probably by his own hand.” Again we were in the doctor's study, and I in my old place ready to listen. “You remember,” Dr. Mayer began, “that I told you of Clarence’s love. The young lady in question wiyi Miss Charlotte Warren, of New Haven.” “Daughter of Sam Warien, president of the Connecticut Norther j Railroad? I have met her. She is by all odds the prettiest giri in the State. ’ “I honestly believe sin is. Well, Clarence used to call on her about three times a w T eek. They wer* engaged, of course. Last Friday evening he was in New Haven and he remained at the house later than usual. In fact, when he took his departure there wasn’t much time in which to catch his train. He believed that by running he could make better time than by riding. So he took a straight cut for the station. His way one point led him through a rather ‘tough’ part of the city and brought him upon an exciting adventure. “It seems that a little fellow who was out late selling papers was being tormented by a big brute for what reason I didn’t learn. I guess that innate cussedness was the only real explanation. Clarence interfered to save the boy, at the risk of losing his train. He didn’t risk anything else, as you know, having seen him. Somehow the ‘tough’ didn’t see Clarence quite so clearly. His name, I remember, was McGee. * Well, Mr. Me Gee resented Clurence’s interference. Clarence was perfectly cool. To him it was only a dream and could have but one termination. He seized Mr. McGee and in a second the ruffian was standing on his head in the mud. He got upon his feet again and drew a pistol. Clarence took it away from him and, lifting him clear of the ground, rammed him head foremost into an empty ash barrel. When Mr. McGee had extricated himself he appeared to be satisfied. “ ‘You run home, now,’ said Clarence to the little boy. “ ‘I daren’t,’ said the boy, ‘he’ll foller me an’ lick me.’

“This view of the case appeared quite reasonable to Clarence. lie looked at McGee and then at the boy and quickly made his decision. “ ‘l’ll go with you,’ said he. They passed through many dirty streets, nnd still the boy said home was a long way off. ‘You can go alone, now,’ said Clarence. ‘That fellow can’t find you. ’ For answer the boy pointed in the direction whence they had come. On the other side of the street a bulky figure stood in the shadow. ’.So he’s after us,’ said Clarence. ‘He ain’t after you,’ said the boy, grinning; ‘he’s had all he wants o’ you. It’s me he’s after.’ “So they went on together, and at last arrived at the door of a fairly-good house. Here Clarence would have raid good-night, but the boy begged him to go in and receive his mother’s thanks. In the little fellow’s eyes Clarence had become a hero. The sound of their voices brought a woman to the door. The boy instantly poured forth his story, and the womau’s gratitude was unbounded. She did not, however, neglect to scold the boy for remaining out so late, against her oft-repeated orders, ns she declared. She prevailed upon Clarence to come into the house for a minute, and there, in the light of the lamp, he found himself face to face with his former landlady, Mrs. Rogers. “She new him instantly, and renewed with greater fervor the expression of her gratitude. “ ‘So you didn't recognize Harry,’ she cried. ‘Well, he has grown wonderfully since we moved down here.’

“She told him the entire family history of course, and it was nearly 2 o’clock when he rose to go. But she wouldn’t hear of such a thing. He couldn’t find his way back, he would be robbed and murdered ; he must bo half tired to death. One at least of these arguments was valid; it would have been very hard for him to find his way to the station. So the upshot was he consented to spend the night in Mrs. Rogers’ spare room. He was asleep as soon as he touched the bed, and daylight had long since come when he awoke. “For some minutes the shadow of sleep oppressed him, and then slowly, with deadly accuracy of detail, the present scene made itself perceived. He lay in the same rude bed, the same dull, yellow walls stared at him, the same tawdry furniture mocked him. He had returned to the old life. The dream was done.

“By what device of Satnn it happened that the room was almost an exact reproduction of that in which he had suffered in the old days, I cannot say, but such was the case. The Rogers family had brought their furniture with them from Nfew York, and had stocked the ‘spare room* with their best, which hud been Clarence's in the days of his poverty. “He did not question the immediate evidence of his senses. That room had been the hardest link in the chain which had bound him to reality. He could not dream there. He had dreamed of escaping from it, and of living in uninterrupted fancy for months. The wealth, the freedom, the love that he had found in dreamland were taken from him in a second. “I do not wonder at what followed. Clarence arose, and, having partly dressed, sat down beside the table in the center of the room and buried his face* in his bands. He has as much courage as most men, I think, but not enough to bear this. Min£ you, his delusion was his life. He was situated just as you would be if everything you care for in the world was suddenly taken from you. The limit of his endurance was reached.” The doctor paused and seemed ter enjoy the spectacle of my impatience. “Suicide,” said he at last, “is largely a matter of opportunity. If. for instance, the pistol which Clarence had taken from his assailant the previous evening bad not been lying on the table before him he might not have come to a decision so promptly; he might never have brought his mind to it. Even with this deadly weapon ready to his hand he did not yield at once. He pushed the pistol away, and half turning from the table again leaned upon his hand and thought I pity him for what must have passed ia his mind—

“Slowly the arm which had supported his head straightened out. He did not look at the table, but his fingers groped upon it, seeking something. Suddenly they closed upon —” “You don’t mean it I” I exclaimed, unable to restrain myself longer. “The pistol—” “No, my boy, not the pistol Thev closed upon my hand, and I pat into it all the friendly pressure, all the sign of

|my compassion, all the promise of my never-failing help, that the spirit of nature, our mother, granted me at that supreme moment. He cried out hoarsely, fell forward into my arms and wept like a child. “For a minute my suspense was awful. Would he go stark mad? Not a bit of it. “He was cured right then and there. And the secret is simple enough. He had originally lost his reason because of the coincidence of his leaving that room and the receipt of his fortune. He had gradually brought himself to believe that if he could leave Mrs. Rogers’ house he could dream always. He had left it and instantly had found his expectations realized. He was rich thenceforth. So the conclusion was that the room had held him to reality. “When, therefore, he found himself back in it he believed that reality had returned upon him. Nothing which he had ever seen in that room had been a delusion. When, therefore, he saw me there he accepted the fact of my existence. And when I told him that his wealth, his freedom and his love were real he believed me. He is to-day as sane as yon are.” There was a long silence. Then I asked. “ How did you happen to be there?” “ I found that Clarence had not returned to his rooms that night. I traced him to New Haven, heard the story of the boy’s rescue, guessed where he was and hurried there, urged by fear that some familiar object in that house would be the death of him,and the event showed that my fears weie not ill-founded. If he had waked that morning five minutes earlier I should have found him dead.”—[Phila. Press.