THE INTERPRETER OF DREAMS
“Curiosity,” said the young man as he reached for the mustard, “once
killed a cat. But anyway, I’m curious. What about it? Were you winning a
bet when you came down that rope?”
They had arrived safely at the little restaurant round the corner.
Perched on stools, they were drinking coffee and munching away at small
pies for all the world like old pals.
“No, I—” Florence hesitated. He was a nice-appearing young man; his eyes
were fine. There was a perpetually perplexed look on his face which said,
“Life surprises me.”
“Well, yes,” she said, changing her mind, “perhaps I was winning a bet
with—” she did not finish. She had started to say, “a bet with death.”
This, she reasoned, would lead to questions and perhaps to the disclosing
of facts she wished to conceal.
“What do you do beside reading books on the street at night?” she asked
quickly.
“I—why, when I don’t study books I study people,” he replied frankly.
“I’m—well, you might call me a psychologist, though that requires quite a
stretch of the imagination.” He grinned. Then as a sort of afterthought,
he added, “Sometimes I tell people the meaning of their dreams.”
“And you, also!” Florence exclaimed, all but dropping her pie. She began
sliding from the stool.
“No, no! Don’t go!” he cried in sudden consternation. “What in the world
have I said?”
“Dreams,” she replied, “you pretend to interpret dreams. And there’s
nothing to it. You—you don’t look like a cheat.”
“Indeed I’m not!” he protested indignantly. “And there truly is something
in dreams—a whole lot, only not in the way people used to think. Slide
back up on that stool and I’ll explain.
“Waiter,” he ordered, “give Miss—what was that name?”
“Florence for short,” the girl smiled.
“Give Florence another piece of pie,” he finished.
“You see—” he launched into his subject at once. “I don’t ask you what
your dreams are, then tell you ‘You have dreamed of an eagle; that is a
good sign; you will advance,’ or ‘You dreamed of being married; that is
bad; you will become seriously ill, or shall have bad news from afar.’
No, I don’t say that. All that is nonsense!
“What I do say is that dreams tell something of your inner life. If they
are carefully studied, they may help you to a better understanding of
yourself.”
“Interesting, if true.” Florence took a generous bit from her second
small pie. “But it’s all too deep for me.”
“I’ll explain.” The young student appeared very much in earnest. “Take
this case: a woman dreamed of seeing an elephant balancing himself on a
big balloon and sailing through the sky. Suddenly the balloon blew up,
the elephant collapsed, and the woman wakened from her dream. What caused
that dream?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. “The woman had seen both
elephants and balloons, but not recently. Truth is, the balloon and the
elephant were symbols of other things.
“When a dream interpreter questioned her, he found that she lived in a
large, badly furnished house which she hated. All but unconsciously she
had wished that the house would collapse or blow up. The collapse of the
elephant symbolized the destruction of the house.”
“And s-so,” Florence drawled, “she had the old house blown up.”
“No, that wasn’t the answer!” the youthful psychologist protested. “The
thing that needed changing was her own mental attitude. The way to fit
our surroundings to our desires is often to change rather than destroy
them. She had the house remodeled and refurnished. And now,” he added
with a touch of pride, “she is happy. And all because of the proper
interpretation of her dream.”
“Marvelous!” There was a mixed note of mockery and enthusiasm in the
girl’s tone. “And now, here’s one for you. I too dreamed of an
elephant—that was night before last. I was in a jungle. The jungle seemed
fairly familiar to me. I was passing along a narrow trail. There were
other trails, but I seemed to know my way. Yet I was afraid, terribly
afraid. The surprising thing was, I couldn’t see a living thing, not a
bird, a bat, or even a mouse.
“And then—” she drew a long breath. “Then in my dream I heard a terrible
snorting and crashing. And, right in my path there appeared an immense
elephant with flaming eyes, eyes of fire. _Fire._
“Fire!” She fairly gasped at the apparent revelation of her own words.
“Fire destroys all,” she murmured low.
“And then?” her new-found friend prompted.
“And then,” Florence laughed with a feeling of relief. “Then I woke up to
find the sun streaming in at my window. And, of course,” she added, “it
was that bright sun shining on my face that caused the dream.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said the student. His tone was serious. “I
have a feeling that you are in some sort of real danger. I am surprised,
now that I recall it, that I did not see the elephant, or whatever he
symbolized, coming down that rope after you. You—you wouldn’t like to
tell me?” He hesitated.
“N-not now.” Florence slid from her stool. “Perhaps some other time.”
“O. K. Fine! I’m greatly interested.”
“So—so am I.” These words slipped unbidden from her lips.
“Here’s my card.” He thrust a square of pasteboard in her hand.
“Thanks for the pie!” They were at the door.
“Oh, that’s more than all right. Remember—” his hand was on her arm for
an instant. “Don’t forget, if you need me to interpret a dream, or
for—for—”
“Another piece of pie,” she laughed.
“Sure! Just anything,” he laughed back, “just give me a ring.”
“By the way!” Florence said with sudden impulse, “there _is_ something.
Can you help people recall, make them think back, back into their past
until they at last remember something that may be of great help to them?”
“I’ve done it at times quite successfully.”
“Then I’d like to arrange something, perhaps for tomorrow or the next
day. I—I’ll give you a ring.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He was gone. Florence felt better. In this great city she had found one
more substantial friend. In times like these friendships counted for a
great deal.
There come periods in all our lives when life moves so swiftly that
things which, perhaps, should be done are left undone. It had been so
with Florence. As, a short time later, she found time for repose in the
studio under the eaves of a skyscraper, she wondered if she should not
have called the police and had that tenth story haunt of Madame Zaran and
the Professor raided.
“And after that—what?” she asked herself. To this question she found no
answer. The police might tell her she had been seized with a plain case
of jitters. Truth was, not a person in that room had touched her. Madame
Zaran had indulged in a fit of passion—that was about all.
“Besides—” she settled back in her chair. “It is not yet time. There are
things I want to know. How was it that I saw real moving figures in that
crystal ball? How much of Madame Zaran’s work is pure show? How much is
real? I must know. And, meantime, I must do what I can for June Travis.”
With that she went away to the land of dreams.