The Seattle post-intelligencer. [volume] (Seattle, Wash. Terr. [Wash.]) 1888-1914, 1892-05-22

is entirely his own fault. 1t Is he who
persuades and urges me. l myself would
much prefer to remain quietly in bed. and
tell him so. But he does not study my
convenience, He thinks only of himself,
and insists on my getting up at once and
coming down to the theater. explain
to him that / can't act Bit He
seems to consider this unimportant.
and says, ooh, that will be all right. !"
We argue for while, but he makes the
mater quite a personal one, and to obslge
| him and get him out OF the bedroom
consent, though much against my own
! Judgment. | generally dress the cha-ac-
ter in my nightsiiirt, though on one occa-
sion, for Banauo, / wore pajamas--but
| then that was a swell part---and | never
remember single word of what ought
| to say. How get through do not know.
Irving comes up afterward and congrat-
uates me, but whether upon the bri!liancy
of my performance, or upon my luck IN
| getting off the stage before brick-bat is
| thrown at me, cannot say.
Whenever dream this incident l invar-
| iabiy wake up 10 md that the bed-clothes
| are on the door, and that | am shivering
| with cold; and it is this shivering, sup
| pose that causes me to dream l am
| wandering about the Lyceum stage in
| nothing but my nightshirt. But still do
not understand why it should always be
| the Lyceum.
Another dream which 1 fancy / have
| dreamt more than once--or, if not, l have
dreamt that I dreamt it before. thing
one sometimes does--is one in which | am
walking down very wide and very long
road in the East End Of London. 1t is a
curious road to ind there. Buses and
trans pass up and down the center Of it,
! and it is crowded with stalls and barrows.
beside which men in greasy caps stand
shouting; yet.on each side it is bordered
by a strip Of tropical forest The road In
| fact, combines the advantages Of Kew and
Whitecharel.
Someone is with me, but cannot see
him. and we walk through the forest,
pushing our way among the tangled vines
that cling about our feet, and every now
and then, between the giant tree trunks,
we catch glimpses of the noisy street.
At the end Of the road there is a narrow
turning, and when | come to it | am
afraid, though do not know why l am
afraid 1t leads to house that l once
lived in when child, and now there is
some one waiting there who has something
to tell me-
turn to run away. A Blackwell bus
is passing and l stop to overtake it. But
the horses turn into skeletons and gallop
away from me. and my feet are like lead,
and the thing that is with me, and that
cannot see, seizes me by the arm and drags
me back.
and the door slams to behind US. and the
sound echoes through the lifeless rooms.
recognize the rooms; lived and laughed
and cried in them long ago. Nothing is
changed. The chairs stand in their places,
empty. My mothers knitting lies upon
the hearthrug, where the kitten. remem-
Der, dragged it somewhere back in the six
ties.
60 up into my own little attic. My cot
stands in the corner, and my bricks lie
tumbled out upon the floor Il was always
an untidy child). An old man enters-an
old, bent, withered man--holding lamp
| above his head, and look at bis face, and
| and he also is myself. Then more and
| more, till the room is thronged with faces
| and the stairway beyond and all the silent
| house. Some of the faces are old and
| others young, and some are fair and smile
| at me, and many are foul and leer at me-
| And every face is my own face, but no two
| of them are alike.
do not know why the sight of myself
| should alarm me So but / rush from the
| house in terror and the faces follow me !;
| and | run faster and faster, but | know
| that shall never leave them behind me.
AS rule one is the hero of ones own
| dreams, but at times l have dreamt a
dream entirely in the third persona
| dream with the incidents of which have
had no connection whatever, except as an
| unseen and impotent spectator. One Of
| these have often thought about since,
| wondering if it could not be worked up
into story. But. perhaps, it would be
too painful theme.
| | dreamt saw a woman's face among a
throng. 1t is an evil face, but there is a
strange beauty in it. see it come and
| go, moving in and out among the shad-
| ows. The Pickering CLEANS thrown by
| street lamps flash down upon 1t. showing
| the wonder of Its evil fairness. Then the
| lights go out. l see it next in place that
is very far away, and it is even more beau
| tiful than before, for the evil has gone out
! of it. Another face is looking down into
| it, Young pure face. The faces meet and
| kiss and as his lips touch hers the blood
| mounts to her cheeks and brow. / see
| the two faces again. But l cannot tell
| where they are or how long time has
passed. The lads face has grown little
order, but it is still young and fair,
| and when the woman's eyes rest upon it
there comes glory into her face so that it
| is like the face of an angel. But'at times
| the woman is alone, and then / see the old
evil look struggling to come back again.
| Then | see things clearer. / see the
room in which they live. 1t is very poor.
| An old-fashioned piano stands In one cor
ner. and beside it is table on which lie
scattered a tumbled mass of papers round
an lnkstand. An empty chair waits before
the table. The woman sits by the open
| window.
She seems to be sitting there for long
| while. From far below there rises the
sound of great city. Its lights throw
| up faint beams into the dark room. The
smell of its streets is in the woman's
| nostrls.
Every now and then she looks toward
| the door and listens. Then turns again to
the open window. And notice that each
time she looks toward the door the evil in
her face shrinks back; but each time she
turns to the open window it grows more
fierce and sulien.
| Suddenly she starts up. and there is a
terror in her eyes that frightens me as |
! dream, and see great beads OF sweat upon
her brow. Then, very slowly her face
! changes, and see again the evil creature
of the night. She wraps around her an
old cloak and creeps out. hear her foot
| steps going down the stairs. They grow
| fainter and fainter. Then ii seems as if a
| door were opened, so that the roar of the
streets rushes up into the house and the
woman's footsteps are swallowed up.
Time drifts onward through my dream.
| Scenes change, take shape and fade, but
| all is vague and underlined, until, out of
| the dimness, there fashions itself a long,
deserted street. The lights make glisten-
ing circles on the wet pavement. A fig
| ure dressed in gaudy rags, sinks by,
keeping close against the wall. Its back
Is toward me, and / do not see its face.
| Another .hgure glides from out the
| shadows. | look upon its face, and l see
| II Is the face that the woman's eyes gaZed
up into and worshiped long ago, when
my dream was just begun. But the fair
ness and the innocence are gone from out
OF 1t, and II Is old and evil, like the