I have just mentioned that I sometimes fell asleep under the inspiration
of obscure thoughts and reveries. On the whole, I slept a great deal,
and dreams played a prominent part in my life; I beheld visions almost
every night. I did not forget them, I attributed to them significance, I
regarded them as prophetic, I strove to divine their secret import. Some
of them were repeated from time to time, which always seemed to me
wonderful and strange. I was particularly perturbed by one dream. It
seems to me that I am walking along a narrow, badly-paved street in an
ancient town, between many-storied houses of stone, with sharp-pointed
roofs. I am seeking my father who is not dead, but is, for some reason,
hiding from us, and is living in one of those houses. And so I enter a
low, dark gate, traverse a long courtyard encumbered with beams and
planks, and finally make my way into a small chamber with two circular
windows. In the middle of the room stands my father, clad in a
dressing-gown and smoking a pipe. He does not in the least resemble my
real father: he is tall, thin, black-haired, he has a hooked nose,
surly, piercing eyes; in appearance he is about forty years of age. He
is displeased because I have hunted him up; and I also am not in the
least delighted at the meeting--and I stand still, in perplexity. He
turns away slightly, begins to mutter something and to pace to and fro
with short steps.... Then he retreats a little, without ceasing to
mutter, and keeps constantly casting glances behind him, over his
shoulder; the room widens out and vanishes in a fog.... I suddenly grow
terrified at the thought that I am losing my father again. I rush after
him--but I no longer see him, and can only hear his angry, bear-like
growl.... My heart sinks within me. I wake up, and for a long time
cannot get to sleep again.... All the following day I think about that
dream and, of course, am unable to arrive at any conclusion.