Well, said the brain doctor. What have we here? The dream of one night is resumed on the night following. That is a very ordinary occurrence.
Possibly, said the young man. However, on the next night, there I was, having just passed the dividing line between that floor and the floor below it. I had slipped into a recumbent posture, with one leg slightly raised, like this.
Yes, yes, said the psychiatrist. I see. It is not necessary to demonstrate. You nearly knocked over my ash-tray.
I'm sorry, said the young man. I'm afraid I have picked up the habit from Maisie. Maisie is my fiance. When she wants to say how she did a thing, she just shows you. She acts it out. It was the night she told me how she slipped and fell on the icy pavement on Seventy-second Street, that we became engaged. Well, as I say, there I was, falling past another floor, looking about me in all directions. The hills of New Jersey looked magnificent. A high-flying pigeon coasted in my direction, and regarded me with a round eye, devoid of any expression whatsoever. Then he banked and sheered off. I could see the people in the street below, or rather their hats, jammed as closely as black pebbles on a beach. Even as I looked, one or two of these black pebbles suddenly turned white. I realized I was attracting attention.
Tell me this, said the psychiatrist. You seem to have had a good deal of time for thought. Did you recollect why you were falling; whether you had thrown yourself, or slipped, or what?
Doctor, I really don't know, said the young man. Not unless my last dream, which I had last night, sheds any light on the matter. Most of the time I was just looking around, falling faster all the time, of course, but thinking faster to make up for it. Naturally I tried to think of subjects of importance, seeing it was my last opportunity. Between the seventeenth and the sixteenth floors, for example, I thought a lot about democracy and the world crisis. It seemed to me that where most people are making a big mistake is
Perhaps, for the moment, we had better keep to the experience itself, said the brain doctor.
Well, said the young man, at the fifteenth floor I looked in at the window, and, really, I never believed such things happened! Not in offices, anyway. And, Doctor, next day I paid a visit to the fifteenth floor here, just out of curiosity. And those offices are occupied by a theatrical agent. Doctor, don't you think that confirms my dream?
Calm yourself, said the psychiatrist. The names of all the firms in this building are listed on the wall directory on the main floor. You no doubt retained an unconscious memory which you adroitly fitted into your dream.
Well, after that, said the young man, I began to look down a good deal more. I'd take just a quick glance into each window as I passed, but mostly I was looking downwards. By this time there were big patches of white among the dark, pebble-like hats below. In fact, pretty soon they were clearly distinguishable as hats and faces. I saw two taxi-cabs swerve toward one another and collide. A woman's scream drifted up out of the confused murmur below. I felt I agreed with her. I was in a reclining posture, and already I felt an anticipatory pain in the parts that would touch the ground first. So I turned face downwards like this but that was horrible. So I put my feet down, but then they hurt. I tried to fall head first, to end it sooner, but that didn't satisfy me. I kept on twisting and turning like this.
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 fiance 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.